


Red Light District

by TokyoDAZE



Category: The Beatles
Genre: ?????? edgy, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Hamburg, Hamburg Days, Hamburg Era, M/M, Roleplay thread, TW : Blood, TW : Violence, Vampire AU, rereading this thread makes me depressed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-30 09:05:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 92,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12650460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TokyoDAZE/pseuds/TokyoDAZE
Summary: George Harrison is a lanky, bloodthirsty rocker who has been a “flettermaus” most of his life. He’s a cheeky little vampire with sticky-up hair, a gear leather jacket, and ears that stick out. He’s just lost and cold and trying to hide from the police. Oh right, looking for love is important too. For sure.Klaus Voormann is a timid, unassuming artist who has been a “graue maus” all his life. He’s a lonely little thing with floppy-down hair, a big scarf, and... ears that stick out. He’s just lost and cold and wishing for something more like love than like pity.It’s in the sin-ridden red light district of Hamburg where their paths cross for the first time. Blood is drawn, but so is affection, and it’s not long before the two find themselves earnestly searching for the other and his warmth. And it’s through this the adventure ensues and not excluded from it is being kidnapped by vampire-paranoid mum-friend Astrid, beating the shit out of Klaus’s drunk bastard teacher who is also technically his roommate, then going back to Astrid’s house to build a blanket fort because it's just /that/ fuckin’ cold.Well, at least they have each other now. Each other, and their sticky-out ears.





	1. 1 - 10

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a documented RP thread. Each chapter will have five alternating posts from each writer (10 in total). Further chapters will be added as the thread progresses!
> 
> exiswannabe writes for Klaus and any other exi that crosses their path.
> 
> fangsharrison writes for George and any other ted that crosses their path.
> 
> LOTS of sensitive content in this thread, the most common ones being blood (duh), death or near-death, violence, and moderate gore. Topics such as smoking/drinking, needles, hospitals, drugs, and period-typical homophobia also appear at small points throughout. Please don't read this if that stuff is out of your zone.

_exiswannabe_

The city always seems fuzzier right here. Maybe, Klaus ponders tiredly, it's because he only comes here when he's all melted and exhausted with nowhere else to go. He sees those bargoers, the prostitutes, each one of them drunk off their feet and he is a little glad he doesn't need to waste his pennies on beers to waste away—the drunkenness he feels now comes merely from being here, in St. Pauli. The last place one would expect to find a shy exi such as he.

The illusion of concrete beneath Klaus feels almost hollow, and threatens to cave into the abyss with each of even the nimblest of his footsteps. Or is it just his legs? Maybe that was it. His legs were hollow. No—his chest. His _heart_ , all hollow. Empty inside, just a vacuum, and the only sign of life he's aware of in himself is the miniscule drone of blood surging through his fragile veins.

The maus turns a corner, away from the commotion, onto a quieter street with lots of deserted alleyways. Maybe the ground had already given away here, a long time ago. It sure seems like an abyss…

 

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

It's true that Hamburg is a place of wonders and wildest dreams, that things can be found there that you could not find anywhere in Soho or Amsterdam, at any price. And yet, there are pleasures beyond the realm of human delight. Beyond the levels of pleasure a _mortal_ man can know, or ever hope to achieve, even if your name is John Winston Lennon. And it was no men in women's corsets or heaving bosoms and warm inviting thighs spread in darkened lofts which had drawn George to Hamburg…

The creature seems only a boy to the unknowing observer. That, he has always supposed, is his advantage. People seem to want to help him. They're drawn to him like a kitten mewling in a pile of rubbish. All he has to do is sit there; let them come to him… But it's only a game. And he is lonely. Sleep cannot lull him to final rest, the winds cannot chill him, the sun cannot warm him. Bereft of life, he rests here in Hamburg, not in peace, but on his own terms. He doesn't know what warmth or sunshine feel like anymore. No one will touch him except the other cold creatures. The only time his body is warm is when it's filled with another's blood. When he presses his lips against soft, hot skin and his forehead rests against it, his cheek is pillowed by a pulsing collarbone. These gentle ceremonies have not always been so gentle in the past, but now he has refined his techniques, managed to find little ways to lessen the screams and the goriness. Now it was barely messier than drinking through a straw. But he still enjoyed the little noises they made; helpless and soft, almost as if they were _enjoying_ George's tender ministrations… if he pretended hard enough. It was just the screaming he got enough of at the club. He used to feel bad, too, when he brought their knees cracking down onto the filthy cobbles, heard them cry out for their friends or sometimes their mothers. But not anymore. Pity's nice, but hunger is hunger - and George can't stand it.

Inbetween the only refuge left for him is rock n' roll. It's the perfect disguise; part of a bad who play only during the night time, when all the delinquents, whores, and troublemakers come out. But tonight they had finished their set earlier than usual, and the others were all in bed. They had eaten little bits here and there- but George hadn't. He had been longing for some sustenance for days. As he keened and shivered in the alcove of a dark alleyway somewhere between Große Freiheit and the docks, he heard footsteps echoing on the pavement only a few turns away. Instinctively a quick tongue flickered out between long incisors and chestnut eyes glittered with interest.

The person appeared at the end of George's alleyway. He was a beautiful young man; looked only the same age as George himself. What was surprising, though, was that he was clearly an exi, dressed in their unmistakeable uniform of black turtleneck, tailored jacket and drainpipes; the Paris exi haircut. What was _he_ doing in this part of town? For a moment George felt strangely protective of the boy, which was ironic, seeing as the thing the young man needed protecting from was him. Still crouching in the shadows, George watched him walk with the gait of one who is advancing slowly, but surely, towards bloody ends. Then, when the boy was close enough and George could see the colour of his eyes, the vampire shifted forwards into the dull light of a crescent moon hindered by fronds of ragged cloud. As he saw the boy's eyes flutter upwards from the ground and chance a subtle look in his direction, George for some reason felt glad that he had learned how not to kill them.

He didn't need to try very hard to look hurt - playing sets in the Kaiserkellar was like being beaten up by an angry crowd every night. He would come out covered in bruises, and his fingers were usually shaking by the end of their eight hours up on stage. Now, even in his leather jacket, with the collar turned up and his cheekbones sharp as ever in the murky light, George still managed to retain a sweet looking nature. Some semblance of harmlessness which served almost too well in hiding his motives from the world.

 

* * *

  

_exiswannabe_

All is quiet, it seems. Klaus shudders, drawing faint billows of frosty breath into the air in front of him. He tugs gently at the collar of his sweater and glances around with slightly squinted eyes. Dread seems to seep into the cracks of the pavement beneath his boots, and he wonders why he came here in the first place. _Astrid…_ he hadn't meant to upset her. She was usually so patient, so kind and understanding. and up until that point she had been willing to put up with him and his awkwardness and naivety. But this evening she had snapped and he didn't know how to apologize and ran away, and now he's here. Almost anticipating something bad, so she could be rid of his deadweight once and for all.

He's heard about all the things that went down in the Reeperbahn, where hell meets the earth and where sinners thrive. Here, there are sailors, war veterans, club bouncers, thieves, gangs, drunks who are just a little too full of themselves—people who could mangle you if you so much as breathe in their direction. It was almost a death lottery, coming here if you aren't one of the regulars. Those humans… and the _vampires_ —Klaus shudders. Hamburg isn't notorious just for its seedy, filthy streets filled with evildoers and whores, but for its hostile vampire population. They are stealthy and swift, with cold eyes and laser teeth, and without mercy for victims, for humans. At least, that is how they were described to him by a teacher at his art school. Klaus is fairly new to the city and has yet to see one for himself. Silently, he prays that he never has to. If what people say about them is true, death to one would be the worst fate of all.

Klaus's steps begin to falter, and he feels his breath caught up in his throat and he realizes he's blinking back tears, and he's not sure whether it's from his bitter cold or from his bitter heart. Suddenly, fear begins to trickle in, and he realizes he's gone too far, too deep into the city and he no longer recognizes the streets or where he came from. Lost, he thinks with growing dread. The environment seems to shift and twist around and he glances up slightly, and in the midst of his confusion there is a boy. He's standing at the other end of the alleyway. Klaus finds it hard to see him, partially obscured in the shadows, but he appears to be lanky-built with tall, scruffy hair and sharp cheekbones. His eyes are wide, and the maus wonders if he's lost too.

“ _Hallo_ ,” Klaus forces a strained smile towards him as he gets closer. He does have that lost look on his face—slightly glassy as well as dark, and mouth hanging open just barely. He appears to be alone and wayward, but doesn't seem all that frantic. In fact, there's almost a smirk. Klaus lowers his gaze again and bites his lip, feeling the pace of his heart quicken.

 

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George tried to play it cool as exi boy took the bait and looked at him. Tried to remain motiveless, unknowable, but despite his efforts some of his hunger still showed through. The look he returned to the boy was involuntarily sly - watchful - excited and a bit cruel. But even so, this boy seemed oblivious. _He was just too easy,_ George thought. Probably because he was so skinny; he thought that vampires wouldn't bother to target him for such a meagre meal. Or - no. Now George saw it. He looked distracted, something in the way his eyes had a thin, dirty film over them even as they rested on George. Like he was thinking about something else. He wouldn't be for very long…

George didn't even bother to answer his greeting. Just as the boy got near him, he snapped forward, out of the shadows. Startled, the boy started to back away, but George caught him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him back close. Then the boy made a sound. A beautiful, soft, surprised kind of sound, right in George's ear. And George wasn't sure what it was… sweet? _Cute_? He stilled for a moment, confident that he had a good hold on the exi boy, he wasn't going anywhere. He hummed against the cold skin of the neck, tilting his head to nudge his nose against the delicate part underneath the jawline. Then one hand snaked up to rip the top few buttons harshly off and expose more of the boy's shoulder, before leaning into it, rushing into it like it was a pillow and he was falling into sleep. By now his head was spinning so much from the potent scent of blood that he hardly noticed the bite, his teeth sinking in. Exi twitched away but George was so quick that the boy's moment of confusion before it became unmistakably apparent what was happening, lasted not even seconds. The next thing George felt was that gorgeous warmth flooding through him, down his throat and though his veins, warming his whole body like it hadn't been for weeks. He knew that at this point the boy would in turn be feeling very dizzy, and as predicted - because his victims had become predictable, almost like reading from a script, after all these times - he started to struggle, albeit weakly. George tightened his grip. Starving and exhausted as he had been moments ago, now his mind felt cold and high and clear. He felt inhuman as he only ever did at these times. But it didn't disgust him anymore. He felt powerful. He felt he _owned_ this boy, and he loved him, for giving him this wonderful substance. Nobody disturbed the alleyway as George took what he needed. No one even came close. They never did, it wasn't on the way to anywhere. And no one would come here by accident; it was impossible to get lost under the lights of the Große Freiheit, or even a few streets away from it. So George had all the time in the world. But even so, he was drinking fast. It had been so long, and he needed it. His hunger was receding. He latched on tight to the boy, buildings gigantic bodies looming in the blackness all around them; bright scatterings of stars above. And the air was freezing around them. It was almost like time had stopped. Which, for George, it had.

Before long the other boy was staggering, incoherent sounds and half-words bubbling from his lips, and George had to tug an arm around his waist to keep him up. But then, he remembered: _this was when you had to pull away._ If you didn't want to kill them, this was when you had to stop. And it was usually difficult, but for some reason tonight it just wasn't. George almost felt compelled to do it, when usually it was the opposite. He didn't want to hurt the boy. He sucked in a breath, quick and almost surprised at what he had done. His eyelashes fluttered against the boy's now hot and pale skin, and he held still for a moment, just looking at the little marks, and the dribbles of bright crimson blood and the way it was smeared like dried paint now, across the boy's shoulder. He almost asked 'does it hurt?' Then he frowned, dark devilish eyebrows drawing in. What was wrong with him? He could even hear John's little snigger in the back of his head. The snigger John used whenever, in his opinion, George was being too soft with the birds. He pulled away suddenly, looking up at the boy with wide, dark eyes; still gripping him by the arms. Normally he would have run by now. He didn't know why he wasn't running…

 

* * *

 

  _exiswannabe_

It all just happens so quickly. Klaus doesn't anticipate it, doesn't see it coming, though when it's all over he will know that he should have, that he was stupid for letting it happen when it was so painfully obvious . Of course… a vampire would attack just when he let his guard down.

But there isn't time to think about it now. Suddenly his spine is pressed hard against the freezing brick wall and the teddy boy keeps him pinned tightly, chest pressed up against his and the feeling of teeth worrying at his collarbone. He doesn't even have time to start struggling before a stark pain shoots through his throat and he jerks his head up with a muffled cry. Klaus begins to squirm, trying to push the vampire away, lithe body writhing against him and the pace of his breath picking up rapidly.

 _No… no—I'm going to die here—I don't want to die…_ He whimpers, the freshly opened wound throbbing as the boy gleefully sucks away at his life and the dizziness suddenly sets in, hanging over his head and making the world spin around him, him and this innocent-looking monster. It's becoming hard to struggle, hard to breathe, and Klaus feels his knees buckle underneath the sudden weight and everything is weak and he can't move unless to collapse, but the ted forces him to stay upright, stay a _victim_ …

 _I—I have to go back, I have to say sorry to Astrid first, please—please let me, please, please…_ The words can't form in his dry throat, he can't say anything clearly anymore. Everything seems to twist and writhe away with him, snatching air away from his lungs and forcing him to choke, gasp for breath, for life seeping away into the veins of this creature. There is no air, only tears—hot, pleading tears streaming down his cheeks as his movements become weaker and weaker, lost to the clutches of predation and he's certain it's all over now, there's nothing left.

Suddenly, the fangs are gone, pulled away. Klaus freezes, a deer in the headlights, and tries to regain his breath. The boy doesn't move, keeps him held in place, but slowly he moves back and looks up at him and suddenly Klaus can't breathe all over again.

The boy has wide, glittering eyes and a morbidly curious expression on his bold, beautiful - high cheekbones, gelled-up hair, eyelash-teeth, downcast eyebrows, and— _segelohren._ What a grand pair of ears… Klaus can feel his own burning at the tips.

Then reality snaps back and he feels the dread soaking up once more. _Why did he stop? Doesn't he want me dead? Is this some sort of cruel joke?!_ The maus starts to struggle again, trying to push him off but there is no more energy, no more. He's just so dizzy, there's no more he can do.

 

* * *

 

  _fangsharrison_

George's chest seemed to shiver and jolt with the movement of the exi-boy's struggling. He didn't know what to do with the boy; like when as a young child you would catch a mouse in a trap and hold it in your hands, but not know what to do with it now you had caught it. If you let it go then you'd be left with nothing to show for it, but you couldn't very well take it home to your mother. He swallowed, pressing his lips together and looking hard into the other boy's eyes, watching the mingled confusion and terror… and something else. George hadn't much idea what. John or Stu would know; the artists. He could only croak out two words, in the end: 'Run away.' And, with this, he let the body go suddenly, a little too suddenly, it seemed, as the boy immediately swooned to the side as if his knees had buckled, and George grabbed him forcefully under one arm and shoved him away into the street, giving him the jolt he needed to regain his faculties. And in the breadth of a second George was gone again, disappeared into the blackened shadows without a sound. He felt a heavy pain in his chest like some sort of lead weight trying to pull him backwards, back to the exi-boy. Like a magnet. But now George had the strength to fight against it as he ran; he moved faster, jumped over the walls of the back-buildings and through the gutters, sneaking around the corners of the Freiheit before finding his way home.

But the memory of that night hadn't left him after one, two - or even four days. It had been nearly a week since George had last been to that back alley, too afraid to go again in case he should encounter the exi-boy a second time. The worst of it was that he was fighting a silent battle in the back of his mind, bothered mostly by feelings of guilt about what he'd done, taking advantage of that other boy when he of all people should know better, being the so-called innocent one in his own group, and always being taken advantage of by the others. But at the same time, he couldn't fight back the excitement he felt when he remembered what had happened. The boy's blood had had the purest taste on his lips, so different, so innocent, like nothing he'd been able to drink in Hamburg so far. Perhaps he had been looking in all the wrong places. Of course, the blood he usually managed to find was choked with alcohol and disease and all kinds of drugs which George had to only hope weren't going to hurt him too much. But that boy had been something else. He couldn't ignore the fact that in some, perhaps less human moments, all he wanted was to do it again.

As George sat at his stool on the stage, gaze drifting in the middle distance and his huge guitar tucked under his arm, he was thinking about it. Little things he could remember. He remembered the smell of the boy, not clean but like two-day laundry, which to them who dwelt at the Bambi Kino was fresh as daisies. And those little, slightly narrow eyes, he couldn't really think how to describe them, but they were very interesting.  _And he had had ears! Ears like mine._ It was a stupid little thing to remember so much, but George had almost felt like he'd run into a long lost cousin, or kin or some kind or the other at least. George was so disappointed in himself for having attacked the young man, extinguishing any chances of talking to him like a normal person, any remote possibility of perhaps being friends. Instead he had given in immediately to his hunger. Now he'd likely never see the boy again, or if he did then it would be with horror or repulsion, and he would run a mile at the sight of George before he could even try to explain. Not that there was anything he could say to do so. What excuse did he have? He couldn't claim he wasn't a monster after he'd done something as monstrous as that. Still, it didn't sit right with him. And the incident had been hovering around him for days. John was getting annoyed. He wasn't playing very well, since he hadn't eaten after that night, feeling a little sick even at the prospect of it. 'George, you're still skipping half the bloody song.' The leader's voice was strained and pleading, too exhausted to even be angry, and all George felt was guilty when usually Lennon liked to inspire the fear of God. 'Sorry. I'll get a pill off someone, should do it right.' Luckily, this happened to work just for the night. He managed to get through the set with newly greased wheels, he even enjoyed himself. It was like an old housewives trick or something - the healing power of rock n' roll. He just forgot everything, and let himself get lost deep in the music and the darkness, screaming out the call-and-response with Paul and twitching his fingers up and down the frets as if possessed by a frantic puppeteer. Finally he seemed to have got rid of the guilt. He might even go out after this set and find another victim. It would be good not to be swaying on his feet for the next night with Tony Sheridan.

 

* * *

 

  _exiswannabe_

Running wouldn't be the right word for what he did to get away. No, it was more like… limping, staggering, and he was so lost and drained that he was _crawling_ the last few blocks back to Astrid's home and if he was in the right mind, Klaus would've been ashamed of how drunk he must have looked to onlooking passerbies but he couldn't think, couldn't be ashamed at all as he collapsed right there at the doorstep and felt his tears hit the concrete, the world spiraling around his fragmented body. Death had just let him slip through its fingers.

Astrid had totally lost it then. At first, when she opened the door to see him limp on the ground in front of her, she was sure he had just gotten really fucking wasted and it seemed she was about to scold him for it but then she saw the smeared blood, the bite marks, and had just completely descended into hysterics. The next few days were spent curled up in bed, recovering and taking supplements from the family doctor to help make up for the blood he lost. Astrid had been so sorrowful and was sulking then, and she told him it was all her fault—he wouldn't have been attacked if she hadn't fought with him and drove him away, and that he had almost died because of her. Klaus was in disbelief—that Astrid, sweet and divine _Astrid_ could be any more self-loathing than him and that she felt that _she_ was responsible for something that happened because he was the one being naive. He could've chosen to back away from that boy, or stayed away from the God-forsaken district altogether. He had the choice but ended up being caught in the spiderweb anyway because he was so, so _stupid._

Still, there was… a part of him that made him almost… _glad_ that he did it. Klaus couldn't sleep, even when bedbound, for his mind kept tracing back thoughts of that vampire and his boyish, beautiful face and figure. The first chance he got, he picked up his sketchbook and pencils and drew what he remembered of the boy's features, sharp and keen and obscured by towering city shadows. _Beautiful_. And he did it again and again, with loving strokes of graphite against paper to replicate that monster he met back there, who could've sentenced him to a bloody fate but didn't, and to convey his feelings. And yet he was so, so sad. Everyone had told him that vampires didn't feel things, especially not for humans— _prey_. He's sure that it couldn't be true, not with the full, wide and wondrous look in the boy's eyes he saw then, but he really couldn't be certain. That vampire couldn't see him as much more than just another meal, could he? Klaus would surely never get any sleep until he found out. Perhaps he was just feeling that desolate…

Astrid was still fretting about him a week later. She insisted on giving him something like silver or a cross pendant to keep him safe, and begged him to stay home for a while longer… but by then he was able to stand and walk normally and he would only get dizzy in bright lights and didn't need her help to get by. And, of course, he was pretty fucking stupid about the whole ordeal. So he made the choice to return.

Klaus comes that evening, neck now concealed in a dark scarf, just when the sun is melting away into the horizon. He can't find out where he had met the boy—he had been lost then—so after an hour or two of just wandering around the damned place, he grows weary and knows he doesn't want to get jumped. As Klaus limps down a street of clubs and bars, he promises himself he would come back the next night, and—

 _Music_. Klaus stops, frozen in his tracks. Different, lively music playing from one of the clubs. The sound is powerful and entrancing and sends a shiver down his spine. Klaus turns slowly, moving towards the forbidden fruit, and allowing the sound to come closer and closer. Ginger steps took him into the cellar—hand stamped, drink ordered, to see just who is playing then. There's a band, a funny looking band with boys who wear their hair upwards with gel, who jump around and sing. Klaus is amused by how they look, and immediately takes to observing them. There's five, drunk off their asses and blood coarsing with music, raw music—brash leader, pretty boy, tiny bassist, forlorn drummer, and—

_It can't be._

 

* * *

 

 _fangsharrison_  

Oddly, George wasn't as surprised as he thought he would be when that familiar face appeared coming down the stairs. It was almost as if he had been waiting, expecting to see him again - somehow, somewhere. But he didn't think it'd be this fast. Something struck deep in his chest like a tremor, and he stopped singing, missed a beat on his guitar and fumbled to find the right chords again as the band played on mercilessly, giving off heat and sweat and sexual energy which was enough to have the room reeling. It was certainly him. Without a doubt. The same black turtleneck, soft, mannered movements, and the little blue eyes. Unconsciously George's tongue flickered out to lick his bottom lip. It didn't take long for the boy to notice him, either, and in contrast to George, he froze, suddenly, as if he'd gone rigid with fear. And George smiled like a demon at that. Their eyes locked on to one another, and George could smell him now. _Yes!_ All the sensations came flooding back to him. The sudden urge was in him again and all his agonising and deliberating on why he hadn't just _talked_ to the exi-boy, pretended to be human and make a friend like he had wanted out of him - dissolved in an instant. But then the boy tore his eyes away from George and seemed to try and distract himself with something else. He was looking at Paul now ( why was he looking at bloody _Paul_? ) and now at John. Anywhere, it seemed, except for George!

Three beers already had gone to his head, and the strong German cigar smoke had stiffened his mind, and he was taken over by racing thoughts; the stunned confusion of finding himself in a room with the exi, surrounded by lights and noise. But cut off from him by what seemed like an impenetrable ocean of bodies. It was frustrating! He looked at the little crowd of girls around the exi-boy enviously. Whatever they could want from him, it wouldn't hold a candle to what George wanted. _Needed_. They had no right to him, when George wanted him more.

George found his lips curling, his brow was so deeply furrowed it felt as if it was starting to bruise, though he hadn't notice he was glaring. George stopped singing, unable to concentrate on anything else now that the boy had let his gaze slip. He felt as if he had been disrespected, and in a spur of aggression he kicked one of the cheap stage lights off the rig in front of him into the audience. But still the exi-boy didn't notice. He was going to have to go down there. Something was pulling him down there. That magnetic again. He could almost taste the copper tang of blood on his tongue.

Paul turned from his mic and tried to hush him, but he would not be hushed. McCartney's hands slipped from his waist as he jolted away just in time - towards the end of the stage as if to jump. But then another hand was on him, yanking him back with tangibly angry force by his jacket shoulder. He glanced to the left to see John glaring at him through garbled lyrics. Then the drum solo took up and John jutted his chin downwards, warning George as well as asking him, silently, ' _what the fuck do you think you're doing?_ ' George gritted his teeth and swung his guitar around to the front again. He felt people in the crowd starting to look at him curiously instead of keeping their eyes on John; and he must have looked suspicious as all hell, or else just like he had mental problems. Either way, George remembered his rule of not drawing any attention. It was for his own safety, and the band's.

Trapped in his inability to have what he wanted, he made a quick counter-decision and dealt with his frustration in the usual way; screaming it out in 4/4 time, his voice tearing up through his oesophagus and his eyes shiny and wet with pain… and hunger. But soon enough the music took possession of him again and he was alright for the rest of the set, just hanging on every end of a song that when he next looked up the exi-boy would still be there. But for whatever reason… he hadn't left, not even by the time they reached their final number and the ordeal was over. He'd stayed through the whole thing.

John went off to the bar, Stu slinking away into the back room on shaking legs like a fawn, and McCartney clapped a hand on George's shoulder, demanding his attention as George frantically searched for the exi-boy's face in the crowd. 'I don't know what's got into you, Geo. But just _don't_. Not at the club, remember?' He seemed stern. It was only out of protective brotherly worry, but George didn't care much if he gave Paul anxiety. Paul would find something to get stressed about in a field of daisies. George shrugged his mate off and disappeared to find his exi-boy. It was ridiculous. How had he even found him here? And why would he come? It was like following Jack the Ripper home. He checked the bar, checked all the places where the boy had been, but he was gone. Had George been hallucinating him? Or had he got scared and fled. Scurried away like a mouse.

Eventually George had no choice but to give up. He got himself a drink and went out into the alleyway, kicking the walls and the rubbish bags had frozen over with frost. He groaned and leaned back against the damp brick wall, downing his scotch with his face turned up to the stars. Then he huffed, and closed his eyes. But as the smell of whisky cleared… there it was again. That exi-boy smell.

  

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

_He's… absolutely beautiful._

Klaus stands there, his gaunt form frozen in awe and icy fear, mouth agape, eyes blinking back tears. There he is, just standing—no, dancing about on the small, ragged stage, with so much energy instilled in him through the devastatingly bewitching music, haunting, haunting and hypnotizing the club and all its patrons with its melody.

Tentatively, he slithers closer to the stage on numb and trembling legs, but halts once more when he locks eyes with the vampire. There it is again, that harsh, starved gaze, and with the most beautiful eyes at that. Klaus feels a shudder bolting up his spine. The music wills him to draw closer, closer to the stage and closer to the vampire—a guitarist, joining in on the racket, and Klaus's siren. In the moment, the memory of their first encounter coursed through his mind—the teeth, the cold and fear, and the lingering, throbbing pain and awe he had felt when he was let go instead of being left to die.

If he comes closer, would the boy do it again? Or would Klaus die, surely, this time at his hands? A flurry of pulsing, undulating human bodies seem to huddle around him, and it's getting hard to breathe again. His fingers are pressed rigidly around the table, and he knows what will happen if he tries to seek out the vampire on his own. The feeling of fangs burrowed into his throat is an unpleasant memory somehow.

It's almost too much. He tears his eyes away from the vampire and tries to put his mind on other things, anything… the pretty boy is left-handed, as indicated by the direction of his guitar. He has a very prominent baby-face and big puppy eyes—a real charmer. The one standing foremost on the stage is a brash, almost ginger-haired ted with a beaky face and gruff, tense posture. He seems intent on making rude gestures and funny faces. The bassist positioned towards the back isn't as vibrant as the rest—he stands mostly still and keeps his cool, with a strong jawline and sharp nose. His gaze lingers on him a bit longer—there's something peculiar and unfitting about his nature that interests Klaus. It's at this point he's so immersed in studying the bassist that the sound of something crashing in front of the stage goes straight over his head. He feels like he's choking. The energy is outstandly dynamic and almost too much for him to bear. The songs seem to never end—Klaus has to step outside and draw in something closer to fresh air.

It's freezing outside compared to the scorching buildup of body heat inside the club, and he feels his ears stinging. With quivering hands, he reaches up to readjust his scarf tighter around his neck, glancing around as he ducks into the alley to the side of the building to just lean against the wall and _breathe_. He doesn't know how long he stays out there—every breath he takes is too short of air, and it feels as if the oxygen is draining from his feeble body. Still, he's driven back, so he steps out of the alleyway and turns the corner, and just like a phantom who refuses to give up its haunts, there he is. _Again_.

Klaus is frozen once more in the presence of his hunter. There's no way he can leave it at this, but he knows what will come to him if he doesn't start running.

“Astrid…” His voice is barely more than a squeak; he starts to back away slowly from the vampire. “Astrid is worry for me, I… I go home now…”

 

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

The scruffy rocker lowered his his drink, frowning down the whisky-blurred alleyway as he tried to locate the voice. But then he turned around to face the other end of the alley, leading back into the club. And there he was. And there, too, was that smell, lingering in the icy air around them. He didn't know why his heart jumped at the sight of the exi, but the moment their eyes locked he was frozen in place. His eyes almost glowed, wide with intensity as he stared at the boy. A predator's stare. And really, the boy should have seen it coming. It seemed he was aware that he had betrayed himself; the colour had heightened in his cheeks, and he looked… _scared_. But he didn't run immediately - unusual, George would have thought, had his mind not be trained on a new, instinctive goal.

And a moment later, he broke the stillness. He bolted forwards, throwing the half empty glass to smash against the wall, and plunging back into the heaving club in pursuit of the boy, who by now had had the good sense to run. As he wove through the beery-smelling bodies, he could hear someone calling for him from the bar. _Paul_. But he didn't stop. There were more shouts as George chased his prey through the audience, knocking peoples' drinks and bumping into their call girls for the night. But not even the hands that tried to grab at the collar of his leather jacket could stop George. He was, surprisingly, a lot stronger than he looked.

Outside George spotted the other boy. The moon was high over the docks of Hamburg, and the Reeperbahn carpeted with a thin mist which swirled around George's ankles as he tore into the middle of the road. There were very few people out at this time; there was always a lull around two. The boy was easy to spot, standing, shivering in the moonlight like a ghost; the image of doomed youth. He made rather a picaresque sight. Like a photograph from a book. But the moment of stillness didn't last, and soon the chase was on again. George strategically rounded on the other boy at each corner he wanted them to turn down, and soon he was sure the exi-boy couldn't possibly know where he was. Unlike George, who knew this place better than the lines of his palm. They came out at the shipyards. No one was working this late, and the port had no bars or clubs.

George caught up to his exi-boy, licking his lips, images of what he wanted to do to him had been flashing through his mind all the while. All thoughts of friendship and intrigue gone. As he pinned the exi against a tower of blackened shipping crates he imagined warmth. Blood, trickling godlessly down his collar and his skinny chest. The only sounds were the lapping of water against the quay, and the slow creak and sway of the masts above them. George looked into the other boy's terrified face. He should be doing it now. He had him exactly where he needed him… but why wasn't he doing it already? If this had been any other night, he would already have taken what he wanted by now. He'd be gone.

He swallowed. They were both shivering now, and his grip on the exi-boy was tighter than ever. He gritted his teeth, furious at himself for just doing _nothing_! But it was quickly becoming apparent why he couldn't bring himself to bite into the boy's skin… he didn't want to. He couldn't fathom how this was the case, but George couldn't deny it, it was true. 'I'm going to-' he started, trying to force some control into himself, warning the boy that he was about to bite. Maybe then he actually _would._  But it didn't work. 'Uh- uh…'

Suddenly George growled and pushed the boy roughly against the iron crates, staggering backwards as he released him. He was still stammering for words, but nothing came out. He stared at the boy with glazed eyes and backed away further until his back hit the post at the end of a jetty. The sounds of water were rushing in his ears. He didn't know what to do. Did he want the exi-boy to just run? Take his opportunity like anyone with a sane mind would and get away narrowly with his life? In a way, yes. But a tiny part of him, wished that the exi-boy would stay.

 


	2. 11 - 20

_ exiswannabe _

Why, why does it take so long for Klaus to come to his senses? He never realizes just how perilous things can get until it's far too late. That this cute, cheeky-looking English boy is a monster is out for blood and blood alone, proven again when hell breaks loose and he sprints after Klaus, a hunter's pursuit, while Klaus scurries for his life and begs the gods to be spared. _He's so fast._ The exi's legs feel weak and frail as he's cornered again and again, deterred too many times as he tries to slip away from his predator. Initially, he's sure that he's escaping back towards the safer neighborhood, to the Kirchherr Altona home and into a safe, loving haven, away from this beast, with Astrid to keep him away. But a turn here—detour here—it's one too many and it's not long before he's just running blindly, somewhere, _anywhere_ , not knowing where he can escape to now.

The docks. He knows this place, vaguely—only enough to know the way back to the art school, which in turn would lead him home. _Perfect_. But suddenly the vampire is upon him and with a yelp, his body slams against the cold metal shipping crates—freezing, in contrast to the scalding, heated feeling of the boy's frame pressed harshly against his own. Klaus is trapped, and the memory of teeth— _blood_ —being weak and helpless—overtakes him. That wretched, desperate feeling.

 _I'm going to die this time. He's not going to let me go._ His chest is heaving as panic forces his way in through his lungs—so overcome with fear he makes no attempt to struggle actively and his movements come only with instinct, with the instinct of escaping and running away and surviving. Somehow, he knows it’s futile anyway. _I'm going to die. I'm going to die. He won't let go._

So when he does, Klaus is more startled than when he's being chased. There's a crash, and Klaus slumps down to his knees, down to the cold concrete. He's overdosed, overdosed on adrenaline and awe, feeling helpless and... _inspired_. The vampire backs away with wide eyes—Klaus feels his face flush, ears flush, thrill and fear coarsing through his throbbing veins. Each breath dissipates into the freezing air with a billowy puff of fog. There's no attempt to escape now. Once again, his senses are gone—gone like mist.

What does he say now? Should he run—if he runs, will he ever come back? Will he keep seeking out this bloodthirsty monster? Klaus suspects he'll never be able to live his life if he stays away for good. There's too much he wants to know now, and he's so lonely. Surely vampires are lonely too? And hungry, without a doubt. Slowly, with trembling and ginger movements, Klaus scrambles to his feet and pulls his scarf up so it covers his mouth.

The moonlight casts strong, strange shadows across the teddy boy's face. The image is surreal, perhaps something that Astrid would photograph or Klaus would draw. There's no color here, except the slight reddening of cheeks, red and out of breath from the chase. The ebbing expanse of water below seems to be taunting the two—a predator who can't bring himself to hunt, and a prey who can't bring himself to run away.

Lonely, desolate and dysfunctional creatures.

The maus doesn't know what he's doing anymore. Tentatively, he offers a hand and bites his lip. “My… my name is—Klaus. You… You-r name?”

 

* * *

 

  _fangsharrison_

His back had slid down the splintering pole until he was sitting on the wet ground, needing to overcome the dizziness that had invaded his thoughts. George's nostrils flared as he sucked in breaths of cool sea air, eyes razor-keen and fixed on the figure looming above him. In a way, the only enemy he had ever had, in being a barrier between him and surviving. If he doubted himself now, who was to say he wouldn't the next victim, or the one after that? One thing was clear; he couldn't just leave this. He would have to overcome it somehow, or he would never be able to hunt the same way again. He occupied several long seconds in this way, just staring, vividly aware of the slightest move of the boy in front of him. But for all his sensory acuteness, when the other boy spoke, his voice seemed to come from far away. A quiet, mannered voice, not a hint of brashness in it. It was almost coaxing. The kind of voice that might even waken the dead. But at the exi's words, George found himself _sniggering_. Had he just _introduced himself?_ George gave the outstretched and shivering hand a cursory glance, but otherwise ignored it. The scarf that had been wrapped about the exi's cheekbones was now hanging loose to reveal a pair of thin trembling lips. They were very delicate. Almost girlish. George didn't know what to do with this information. It had been a while since he had looked at someone like that, and seen real prettiness. The prostitutes, though some were beautiful and all alluring, were never what one could describe as _pretty._ Not graceful, or timid either. Hardly anyone in Hamburg was.

George shook his head, and he found his voice hoarse and croaky. 'I don't want to know your bloody name! Your name is dinner. And yer an _idiot_ for still bein' within two miles of me, do you know that?' But the exi-boy didn't. He didn't _seem_ to. Even a little bit. And it was just this side of endearing, a word and concept which George knew nothing about. For a moment the exi wasn't saying anything, neither was George, and the only sound between them was the restless swell of the sea, and the wind striking their faces. The dock was empty of life. Empty of everything, save the water, Klaus… and the vampire. George groaned and buried his head in his hands. what was wrong with him? What? He was so hungry… so hungry and confused. He just wanted to eat! Why was it so hard for him, when the others could do it whenever they wanted? He didn't want this life. Everyone being afraid of him. It had felt good at first but now there was just loneliness and hunger and that was it. Some nights he even hated rock n' roll. Because those songs were about love. And sticking together, trivial little cruelties like talking to other women, and dances and sweet girls in dresses. And he couldn't have _any_ of that. Life would never be like that for him.

Heedless of the stupid exi-boy in front of him, he started to cry. Angry tears escaping his eyes and running wetly down his cheeks and throat in an unwelcome mockery of him. He felt the darkened figure moving towards him, twitching in its frightened movements, and he hissed out loudly. 'Don't touch me! Just fuck off. Leave me alone.' It was clear as the night sky above them that if there was even an ounce of sensibility in that exi boy, he would run.

 

* * *

 

  _exiswannabe_

Klaus feels a small prick in his heart when the vampire, aside from a curt glare, refuses to acknowledge his outstretched hand. Why does this have to be so fucking hard? He's not running away. He's not trying to fight or even taunt him, but the vampire… isn't moving. Not trying to attack or threaten, at least not with what feels genuine. He seems stubborn, certainly in the bitterness of hunger and frustration—Klaus… isn't surprised.

He is, however, startled when the vampire starts to cry. And even more so when the vampire snaps at him. His body is stagnant for several endless moments—there's only the sound of waves hissing and folding, the wind frosting the tips of his nose and ears and fingers, and sobbing. Agonizing and wretched _sobbing._ Once more, Klaus’s instincts are repressed and the prospect of death vanishes underneath the waves. The world seems to spiral around the monster, a starved animal deprived of blood and sunlight and _affection._ Klaus inches back, but only about a step or two. Even though it's freezing, sweat and adreline are dampening his cheeks. Spidery fingers reach up to loosen his scarf all the way and pull down the collar of his turtleneck, exposing his bony throat and neck and allowing some of the steam to escape and vanish—something he has yet to do.

“I don't understand,” Klaus stresses, seeming almost desperate. “You are no-wanting eat? Why? Why you do not hunt me? I am not-going…” He's stupid, he knows it. He knows just how utterly naive and _stupid_ he is, and he's even doing it deliberately now and the vampire still refuses to kill him. Klaus is just a mouse, willingly laying itself down across the paws of a prowling, feral cat and _begging_ to be crushed. He keeps gazing into the vampire's eyes, hoping for an answer. He has never seen such profound and abandoned eyes in such a young-looking boy—such beautiful eyes and teethy eyelashes, roofed by a pair of thick, straight eyebrows that rest close to his lids, proposing the illusion of a disdained and jaded countenance. Suddenly, Klaus wishes he knew English so he could tell him everything—the fights with Astrid, his feelings of loneliness and worthlessness, and wishing, wishing so _hard_ that he might one day make a difference to someone for once. Even if that difference means giving himself up to the bloodied hands of a ruthless vampire, his crimson life being used to sustain the creature for another day—it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter to him at all. He's just so tired of it anyway, and his blood would have much better purpose serving as someone else's meal instead of being wasted to drive his own wayward soul.

Klaus tilts his head back to face the icy moon, a slight Adam's Apple jutting out from his throat now, and here, under the omnipresent expanse of the inky night sky, he just… _thinks_ for a moment. Even if it's dangerous, even if it's painful, and he doesn't know how he'll manage… he really doesn't want to leave the vampire. Not here, at least, not here on the docks all alone, crying and lost and craving food and love. Slowly, Klaus moves back down to his knees so he'a at level with the ted, hands reaching down and gingerly resting palms against the freezing concrete. He trembles, a thin film of sweat forming atop his pale skin. His heart aches earnestly for this poor boy.

 

* * *

 

  _fangsharrison_

George swallowed. The exi's words seemed ridiculous. _Pathetic_. And George couldn't help but think in a way he deserved what he was asking for, for being so stupid. He was clearly German, he _lived_ in Hamburg. Yet how could he, and at the same time, be so naive? Or was this an act? George had stopped crying by now, his throat dry from the effort, and his eyes flitted in the darkness between his knees as he listened to the exi boy speak. He felt him crouch down in front of him - right in front of him! As if he was something like a kitten or a small child. He had the distinct feeling that the exi was patronising George with his kneeling. But now… he was close. If George just kept up the act a little longer… 'My name's George. George Harrison.' He licked his lips, letting the boy lean in a little closer. 'And you don't know anything about it. I don't think you really want to die here, though, Klaus.'

Clouds filled his head. His body shuddered with a kind of lust. And not lust for unbridled evil, but for - unlikeliest of all things, surrender. He didn't want to hurt the exi, or perhaps he did, perhaps he wanted to feed more than anything, and perhaps he couldn't bring himself to do it. But greater than this, he wanted not to have to debate the issue. Not to even feel it, feel _anything._  And that meant to give in to whatever impulse was trying to take him over, however drastic and bloody the consequences. Besides, if the boy had any sense he should have found it by now. He might just find some very quickly if he knew what George was thinking, the vampire worried. But fate was fixed. He could no longer hold himself back. His empathy was scrambling away from him and all he could now think was: you're in for it now. With a cruel smile he unfurled himself and pounced like a cat on a mouse, knocking the crouching boy onto his back so that damp soaked through that shirt and he started to shiver. Whether with fear or cold, George didn't know, but he would soon be putting a stop to that shivering. They would both be warm. Fingers thrust into the folds of the jumper and clawed at it, tugging it down and aside and then, suddenly, George was drinking. His nose almost touching the dirty ground beneath exi-boy's neck, and he closed his eyes and breathed fast, taking it as fast as he could as if he knew that if the other boy started to struggle and tried to slip out from under him, George would do nothing to stop him. And it could happen at any moment. But it didn't. 'Don't,' George stammered against soft skin, 'don't move. Don't move.'

As usual, everything now seemed very clear around him: Rich warm taste of blood. Creak of heavy ropes swinging between ships. Dry dock stink. And the puddle of water his palm is resting in, which the exi-boy's shoulder is in too, is starting to turn red as blood drips into it. Cold hands lifelessly cling to George's lapels, shaking and not being able to get any purchase.

George brought up a hand of his own, feeling it now warm and tingling with nerves, and placed it over the boy's own, curling his fingers around the cold, bony knuckles and helping him to hold on. For a moment they shared the same blood. George was sure that he had made the right choice. The feeling was too good to let go of - but still something pricked at him, some desire in him still not satisfied. As he ceased his drinking to lick at the wound and smell the take in the heady scent of the boy he realised that, more than his daily bread, he craved one word, one word about him. _Who was he? What was his name?_ It doesn't matter, he told himself, casting the thought aside and sucking desperately again, hearing a soft catch in the throat of the boy. But then something disturbed George's warmth. Noises came faintly as if from a long way off, footsteps slapping on the cobbles, each one echoing like the far-off beating of a bat's wings. A streetlamp gave a distant wink as something passed under it, and George felt a shiver run down his spine. How far were they from the police station…? 

 

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

_George Harrison._ Klaus lets the new identity flow through his mind thoughtfully. Now he can put a name to this beautiful, cheeky face. Not just “ the boy ” or “ the vampire ” anymore, but _George_. A lonesome and handsome guitarist who gets hungry every now and then. He won't ever forget the name.

The pounce takes him by surprise and he feels breath escape his lungs as he is knocked against the harsh, wet ground. The suddenness and disorientation of the assault leaves his head spinning, and he can barely tell which way is upwards save for the sensation of the vampire—no, _George_ … George on top of him, keeping his body pinned down against the bleak concrete. Hot breaths graze gently at his neck, and the boy's hair tickles his nose slightly. Then, he goes in for the kill—pain shoots into Klaus's throat and he spasms, jerking his chin up slightly, mouth agape with a whimper as blood begins to leave him. There's something, something both deep inside and far, far away that screams at him with a shrill voice, screaming for him to get away _now_ , start struggling, _escape_. But he doesn't listen. His muscles are frozen, save for the hands trembling violently against George's jacket.

The vampire's hand is calloused but warm, gradually growing warmer and feels so comforting against his own, icy and skeletal. Had he been anyone else, or had he more sense in his head, this predicament would be nothing but danger, danger and a threat to his life. But George had hesitated to attack, hadn’t he? He had cried as well. And didn't give in to his instinct until Klaus had goaded him into it. And even now, he's being gentle and kind, and almost lustful. The exi makes a small noise, eyes fluttering before closing and he's limp all over. Whatever it is that George wants from him now, he will give, down to the very last drop.

Over the sound of ocean, hints of thunder roars in the distance as clouds begin to wisp against the inky sky, spreading its menace to ride the waves to shore, foretelling a tempest like the Paul Revere of rainfall. _It might rain again soon,_ Klaus ponders silently over the noise. _Or it might even snow. Hopefully school is cancelled._ It seems that suddenly, even as blood is being shed, everything is placid and he is aware of everything and the expanse of earth at his spine. The puddle underneath him is rapidly being soaked up into his turtleneck—it's filthy now, and rather uncomfortable. Astrid would surely have a fit…

 _Astrid_. George seems to tense suddenly and Klaus frowns. “What is it?” His voice is barely a whisper but then he hears it: _footsteps_. Light footsteps, frantic and desperate, searching for something and coming closer. He's frozen, gaze wide now and panic rising in his gut. _No. Not now… not now!_ Klaus's eyes dart around wildly, the thought of being caught by anyone clawing at his stomach with dread.

_“Klaus?! Where are you?!”_

No… not just anyone. Anyone but _her._ That's Astrid's voice, without a doubt, and he turns his head away from the water, towards the dark buildings, and a small figure is sprinting down the pavement, given away by the haunt of streetlamps. The maus is rooted in place as she comes closer and halts several feet away, a lamp smoldering away right behind her and he realizes just how utterly horrifying the scene must look to her. The vampire is on top of him, sucking his blood. That's all she needs to know before horror twists into anger—not just anger, but the anger of a mother the way a mother bear becomes ferocious and unmerciful to keep her cubs safe. Klaus sees the shimmer of a crucifix hanging from around her neck.

Astrid steps closer slowly, the usually gentle woman now menacing, face darkened. Her hands are curled into fists, and her movements are steady but tense. “Get away…” She snarls, eyes fixated on George. “Get away from him. Right now.” 

 

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George's heart was in his throat. He stayed frozen where he was for several long moments which felt like hours. He didn't want to look up and face the trespasser, but even without looking his body was already responding to whoever it was. There was something repellant in the air, almost suffocating, and it felt as if the mist was pressing in on him from all sides, slowly, slowly strangling him. He'd only come across crucifixes once before, in a church in St. Pauli by the football ground. He hadn't been thinking when he, Rory and Pete had taken shelter inside from a thunderstorm which had threatened to ruin their cheap shoes, and, well it didn't take long for him to scramble back out again. It was that same feeling. Almost as if the universe was pushing George away from it; he was unwanted. He looked down at the exi-boy under him, who was not shouting for help, who seemed - not relieved at all, which was strange. Could he be in trouble with police too? No. That was a ridiculous thought. No one this naive and idiotic could be, especially in Hamburg where the police had so much bigger issues to deal with than petty crime.

As the figure started to draw closer George's breath raced. He wiped the blood off his chin with a pained look on his face, then rolled off the exi-boy and started to scramble backwards across the ground. He was looking right at her now. A girl - just a girl - with close cut blonde hair, exi style clothing and a beautiful face; but there was something fierce in it at this moment. The look didn't frighten George in the slightest, but there was something that did. A small silver cross hanging about her neck. His eyes fixed on it and his lips parted in fear, a soft hiss escaping, barely audible in the wind. But thankfully once he had retreated, the woman's interest seemed to have shifted off him, and she was kneeling down frantically over the exi-boy, cradling his head and trying to coax him up.

George rolled his eyes. It wasn't as if he had gone at the exi boy with a club. There was hardly even any blood left around the little puncture marks. George had seen teddy boys in Liverpool with great gashes in their shoulders and sides, and bruises covering half their faces, who could still get up and walk away - and swear to beat the shit out of their attackers as they did. But even if it really was life-threatening, the boy had survived it once and come back for more, hadn't he? But despite himself, George did feel a small amount of worry unfurling in his chest, and he craned his neck a little to see if the exi-boy seemed alright. He wondered if it really did hurt…

In the nick of time he managed to shake himself out of this moment of quiet, partially brought on by the unconsciously subduing effect of that nasty piece of metal. It was ugly, too. All clunky. And George couldn't help but see it as cheating, somehow. Dirty and underhand. He snarled, his eyes almost completely black even under the moonlight, his whole front drenched in filthy water and blood. He had been sitting back on his elbows, but now as he was further away from the crucifix, he took his chance while he still could and got to his feet, taking off across the dockyard and heading, he didn't know where, maybe to one of the alleys between the shut-up dockside hostels which would lead back to the Reeperbahn. Back to Paul, who had been so annoyingly right. _Bloody Paul._

 

* * *

 

  _exiswannabe_

All the heat leaves Klaus's body when the vampire scrambles away. Immediately, George feels so far away—so afraid. Klaus tries to reach a hand out to him, but Astrid is running closer and all of a sudden she's the one hanging over him, shaking him frantically as if she thinks he's been wounded fatally, but he's not—he's not, he's really okay, and the vampire didn't take as much as last time but the explanations bubble from his lips and just pop, lost and floating away and are gone. But there will be time to explain later—if George flees now, when will Klaus be able to see him again? Would he _ever_ see him again at all? He sits up, distressed and looking around wildly, trying to stagger to his feet and find his senses.

Astrid is only slightly relieved when she sees Klaus is alright enough to get up on his own, but the look on his face is strained and desperate. _Of course… that **monster** wouldn't have treated him well, now would it have?_ She grits her teeth, standing up and facing the direction in which the thing vanished. She can just barely make out its shadow, trying to slip away into the darkness. “Wait here…” _I won't let you get away with this._ Astrid breaks into a sprint and moves after it, the hunter now the hunted, and in her mind, her only goal is to prevent the vampire from killing any more people. Behind her, Klaus shouts something, but the rage is growing and festering and blinding everything. There will be time for him to explain later.

Klaus watches helplessly as she takes off, fear for his new vampire friend rising like floodwaters in his chest. He tries to get up, but moving too fast causes his head to spin out of control. When he tries to start running, he falls, puddles rushing up to meet his clothes and concrete to scrape his skin. He's heard about Astrid getting in a fight only once—it was the last time she had ever been in the Reeperbahn, when a young teddy wannabe wouldn't keep his hands to himself. His fingers had landed somewhere unsavory several tirmes and Theo said that Astrid had gotten fed up rather quickly and managed to snap the bastard's wrist—or at the very least, dislocated it painfully. The story has been amplified quite a bit since then so Klaus isn’t sure, and he’s too afraid to ask. She was 15 then—now, at 22, and up against something she perceives as a lethal threat—the conclusion makes Klaus's gut plummet. She won't take kindly to George.

Astrid manages to catch up to the vampire in a matter of seconds—the tales of such creatures having superhuman strength and speed and stealth are all forgotten now, with the crucifix in her power. She lunges for it from behind, with ferocity as her weapon, and slams it face-first into the ground, and she keeps it pinned, teeth bared and eyes wild with adrenaline. All her gentleness and patience is forgotten in the moment, the tension, the hard breathing and hostility. Hopefully the crucifix will be enough to keep this monster subdued—she will not let it out of her grasp now.

 

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

With a grinding cry George felt his forehead hit the concrete, and a dirty graze scraping across his cheekbone. He flipped onto his back and started to scream bloody murder, hoping against hope that by some chance Paul or John was out wandering, drunk or not, and might hear him and come to his aid. 'Let go of me, you _bitch_!' he growled. 'Unless you want to bring the last gang in town to your door!'

He scrabbled out from under her just as her grip was loosening and tried to get as far away from that cross as possible; but before he'd managed to crawl very far she was homing in on him again. George scratched at her with sharp nails, at her neck and arms, leaving angry red scrawls. But she was going for him like a vicious bear. There was no mercy in her technique, no fear of hurting him at all, it was as if she thought he was some mass murderer who was trying to kill her. Which he wasn't! - but if she carried on like this she would really be asking for it.

For several minutes the two black-clad bodies wrestled on the ground, while the 'victim' of what he'd done was standing a few metres away, alive enough to be on his feet and staring at them with that bewildered, idiotic look he always had on his face. George kicked at the girl and tried to ram his bony knee into her stomach, but just then she managed to pin his arms down at the elbows and he coughed, or choked in surprise, his eyebrows drawing in furiously at this development and his stomach fluttering with anxiety and hatred. He jutted his face up viciously towards hers and snapped his teeth together, baring those fangs still stained pink from her exi-boy's precious blood. If only to taunt her. His eyes searched for the boy in the dark, frantically trying to look at him and convey some question, some cry for help. He reached out a hand and tried to claw his way from underneath the woman, back to the exi-boy, back to his best hope of some kind of understanding. Hell, some kind of mercy. But the boy seemed too stunned to do anything. _He was useless!_ 'You bloody coward! What's your game? What's wrong with you! Stupid exi git! I'm going to get you for this!' he cried, his voice scraping horribly in his throat.

His strength was seeping out of him. The cross dangling so low and close to his heart, soon he barely had the strength to kick at the girl's legs as she loomed over him. It was like a sedative, or the wrong end of a magnet. His chest rose and fell rapidly. He pictured himself in a police cell waiting for the witch doctor to come and snap his neck. Or stake him through his heart or slice his throat, or any number of other rumours he'd heard from the few fellow vampires he'd met and begged to give him some guidance. After hundreds of years they may have just wanted the fun of scaring him, of course. But underneath their jokes, there must be some truth…

Panic surged through him at the thought, and his eyes were alight with desperation, his voice cracking almost as if he might cry again with the stress. He sucked in fast breaths one after the other. 'I wasn't going to kill him!' he screamed in her face. 'I wasn't going to kill him! I wasn't going to kill him! Don't call the police!' But seeing no hint of sympathy from the exi-girl, he let his body go lax, and simply spat in her face. 

 

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

The vampire isn't exactly the easiest to catch, but Astrid doesn't give up until he's writhing underneath her, futile to the cross dangling from around her neck. Her chest is heaving and everything feels so heavy and light, hot and cold, bad and good all at the same time. Keeping her target pinned underneath her, she takes the moment to let the shock drain.

_Now what do I do?_

Astrid looks down at the vampire with wide, fiery eyes. Its bared teeth are still stained pink with freshly drawn blood and the sight of it makes the rage flutter again and she tightens her grip on its arms. The monster is quite a formidable fighter—if she didn't have the crucifix, she knows she would've been torn to shreds already. Its gaze has anger and so much ferocity, only accented by its creased brows. The feeling doesn't wither, even after its body goes limp underneath her—an act of surrender. Tongues of fire in its eyes scorch through her skin, skin once ashen and flawless now torn up with scratches that might bruise later.

It is… _young_. She has seen vampires before—restrained vampires, creatures on death row, and they had beady, beaten eyes that had seen centuries of anguish and bloodshed, and were simply waiting to be put out of their misery. But this vampire is different. It is youthful, perhaps turned only recently, ablaze with young hunger and the fright of a child stepping out into the cold, harsh world for the very first time. It can't possibly be older than a human teenager, and it looks the part as well.

Astrid's hands feel cold now—like the hands of a killer. There's so much in the world to see, and so much to experience, and she has been waiting all her life for a change, to get out of this god forsaken city and to find something new. Maybe vampires, perhaps in their youth, have the same hope too, even despite the blood in their stomachs. Would it be fair of her to ruin it for this one? But then, she couldn't just let it escape, now could she? Not as long as it lusts for blood. Still, the motherly part of her urges her not to be so harsh on this lost, abandoned rogue.

She slowly pries her eyes off it and turns her head to look at Klaus, still a fair distance away, frozen and vulnerable. _He's in shock. Of course._ She couldn't expect him to help her now. Astrid turns back to the vampire and draws in a quivering breath, a plan conjuring in her head. It could be the worst idea she ever has—but her empathy is still gnawing at her from inside. A way to keep everyone safe—it's only fair. She leans down, her voice low and steady, English still limited, voice trembling.

“I take you to my—my house. Not police. You do not run or fight—or I go to police. Yes? Just be good.”

Klaus finally snaps back into his senses and starts limping closer, his fingertips numb and he comes close enough just to catch her words. Astrid isn't wrestling George anymore, the two now locked in a tense moment with bristling skin. He can only pray they won't hurt each other now. 

 

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

Well, it didn't look like he had any choice in the matter. Go with the exis… for whatever unknown reason they wanted him. Or refuse, be finally discovered by the police and killed within twelve hours. The scene from all of his nightmares. No one like him had ever gone into that police station and come out alive. It was why George was so terrified of the _Polizeikontrolle_. He cursed himself at this moment for never telling John what he was. John would have been here, right this second, if he knew. He wouldn't have let any stupid exis do anything to his lead guitarist. And he was bulky enough and… well, not a vampire enough to have been able to have taken them out with one bleeding punch! Not like George, who with a wave of a little piece of metal had been reduced to a useless puddle of shivering rage. He got up as angrily as he possibly could, hunching his shoulders and furrowing his brow to look as menacing as he possibly could. He may have to comply, but he didn't have to like it. He wanted the exi bird to know very well that she had pissed off a vampire. Because he was pissed off. Pissed off that he had been interrupted halfway through eating, pissed off that she thought it was any of her business what George's new naive little friend got up to in his spare time, and pissed off that she was treating this all like some kind of joke. Did she even have any reason for dragging him to her house, did she want to question him, was she doing a biology investigation and wanted to poke him with a stick? Or was it just for a laugh? He had shows to play! He had friends to go back to.

But she _had_ him. Perhaps that was the most frustrating thing. She really had him, this tiny blonde haired exi in her turtleneck jumper. All she had to do was just run to a phone box, or go to the police station with those scratch marks and blood all over her, and that would be the end of Guitar George. He didn't even want to think about what would happen to him in there. If only she had come along when he was older, more powerful, when he knew what to do and could just strike her down with one slash and leave her body bobbing in the water… But no. George was stuck in this mess now. And all because of that bloody exi-boy. For all George knew she could just keep him like a pet for the rest of her life. He'd never be able to play again. What would the others do with his guitar? They wouldn't give it to Paul, would they? They couldn't sell it. George would kill them in their sleep if they sold it.

As soon as he was on his feet, there was a hand clamped around his upper arm, muscles that felt like granite, which annoyed him. He gave an experimental tug and a grunt and then a whine. 'You're gonna pay for this y'know,' he snarled as she moved him forwards, striding across the docks and gathering along the exi-boy along the way. 'Do you know who I am? Do you? -Ow!' Her nails dug digging into his arm hard and she yanked him closer to her - so that he could see the crucifix resting over her chest. His heartbeat stammered and he shut up. Just staring at it. Already he felt weary and drained. His legs seemed to move under him, but he couldn't feel them. Everything felt numb and distant. He leaned forward to glare past the girl to exi-boy who was wandering along on her other side. He managed to make eye contact, and it was a sheer terrifying look he gave the boy. Promising far worse than what he had been through already, if George ever got the chance. 'My mates are gonna kill you,' he croaked, repeating it in variations until his voice had trailed off into little more than breath on the wind which swept them along the cold, wide streets of Hamburg. 


	3. 21-30

_exiswannabe_

Klaus only starts moving again when Astrid tugs at his sleeve gently, motioning for him to follow. Even then, everything is just about numb and it feels as if there are air bubbles trapped in his ears, the discomfort one gets from being submerged in water. He’s only vaguely aware that George is glaring at him, mouthing at him with words trying to claw past the air bubbles and burrow into his ears, but there is nothing he can hear now.

The walk back to Astrid’s home seems to last more eternities than could be counted on one hand, and everyone is fucking knackered by the end of it. Klaus doesn’t fight as Astrid takes them both upstairs and gives him a new set of clothes, then practically shoves him into the sheets, tucking the blanket around his limp body and pressing a kiss against his cheek, and he passes out just about right away. So Astrid turns her attention to the vampire, hunched over a few feet away with a crestfallen expression, and again she tightens her hand around its arm and takes it down the hall, down the stairs, down another hall and through a rather rickety-looking door, then down a slope of creaking stairs into the cellar. The entire way, the creature is spitting and growling and scratching, and Astrid is sure that it’d have inflicted something serious had the crucifix not been there to aid her. After a good tussle, she manages to force it down on its knees, grabbing an old but still-formidable rope dangling from a hook on the wall and using it to tie its arms behind its back, then fastening the loose ends to a fixed pipe against the wall to keep him restrained there. It really seems unhappy and she can’t help but wonder if she’s doing the right thing.

 _It’s a little inhumane,_ Astrid stares down at the now-helpless vampire and thinks with a flutter of sadness in her eyes, _but it’s better than turning it in to the police for now, and it can’t hurt anyone in the meantime. I’ll figure something out._ She steps back, away from the monster, and thinks some more before disappearing back upstairs momentarily—she comes back with a clean handkerchief and the vampire struggles uncomfortably as she ties it around its mouth. _So it won’t bite or scream,_ she exhales and pushes down twinges of guilt that are starting to stir in her stomach. And for good measure, as she leaves, she places small cloves of garlic against the doorway, to keep him from exiting should he find a way to break free. She shuts and locks the door behind her, leaving the vampire to brood in the darkness.

—

Klaus finds himself awakening abruptly in the middle of the night, disoriented and still sleepy, but the air bubbles have since cleared and he can feel his body again. It can’t have been longer than a few hours since they came back home… and George is the first thing on his mind. He sits up right away and gets out of bed—with this house and all its groaning floorboards, it would be a nightmare to try and navigate silently in the dark. But thanks to Klaus’s naturally timid nature, he barely makes a sound as he slinks out of his room and starts wandering about, wondering what could have become of his guitarist. It takes him several minutes to scour the entire house but eventually he comes to the cellar door, and it’s too dark to make out the cloves of garlic on the floor but the scent is evident so he unlocks the door, pushes it open and tentatively steps inside, flicking on a switch to activate the dim lightbulb—the only light brought to this room. Sure enough, there he is—on the floor, tied up like an animal waiting to be slaughtered.

The souris can’t help but feel remorse now, but the notion of being able to observe George in a state of helplessness sparks curiosity in him. With ginger steps, he approaches and kneels down in front of the vampire, observing him for a moment without saying much.

 

* * *

 

 

_fangsharrison_

George didn’t know how long he had been sitting with his back against the pipe, tied up inexpertly so that he could feel the rubbing of the rope against his ribs start to bruise. But even the dull pain of that escaped him after a while, as in the submersion of darkness and complete silence he began to lose himself and grow tired. The crucifix’s effects needed to take their toll on him properly and run their course before they let him go. He supposed he should be thankful he no longer had any fighting to do, or thinking… or moving at all.

He thought of the club, wondered whether Paul and the others had noticed that he wasn’t back yet. Would they even think it was strange? He’d never spent the night at some bird’s place before, but they all had. They might not even think anything of it for the whole rest of tomorrow. What could happen to him by then? He was terrified in a way, he couldn’t remember much of how he had got here, who had tied him to a pipe and gagged him… and he could smell garlic from somewhere. Clearly whoever they were, they were not friends. The police could be here any minute now. Any hour could be his last.

He fell asleep for a while. Everything blurred into darkness. But when he woke up he could feel some of his strength finally starting to return. Wondering blearily what had roused him, he suddenly heard it. Footsteps on the staircase; and then the door was being opened. George immediately tried to shout, forgetting that the gag in his mouth prevented any noise other than muffled grunts from coming out. Who was it? Who was it? Did they have a weapon? Were they an exi or a policeman or was it Paul and John coming to save him?

No. It was the exi-boy. The stupid, mysterious exi-boy who had started this all. George kept up his struggling and growling until the boy was close, until he was kneeling down in front of George and just _sitting_ there… pensively. George felt that he was being observed. His eyes watery and his limbs numb and painful, George couldn’t do anything except for stare back at the boy. He was confused, caught off guard by the unsettling silence which pervaded the room around them. The exi boy looked like he had just woken up too. The blood glowed behind his pale skin, which looked thin as gossamer in the dimness.

Suddenly there was a change, and the boy was reaching out a hand towards him - carefully, carefully - achingly slow so that it annoyed George. And with one finger and then two, the exi boy gently touched George’s face, underneath where the concrete had scraped his cheek. Almost as if he wanted to know what he felt like. George didn’t know what to do with this development. He didn’t want to find comfort in the presence of the exi. He wanted to rip his stupid throat out. Or did he? Why did he feel less afraid now that he wasn’t alone in this basement. Even after the exi had withdrawn his hand, the touch tingled on his skin. He felt a little warm mark on his cheek where the tip of the boy’s index finger had been. And somehow that warmth managed to spread all the way through him… just for a moment. What _was_ that? Why did the exi do that? Confusion fretted through him once again. He stopped, stunned for an instant, then had a spasm of panic and started to struggle violently again, chewing furiously at his gag and shouting obscenities at the exi boy as best he could.

 

* * *

 

 

_exiswannabe_

Klaus… doesn’t know what he’s doing. His limbs are that of a puppet’s, pulled and dragged about by magical, hidden stage hands. He really, _really_ does not know what he’s doing. And still, his fingers lightly caress the vampire’s scraped and lightly bruised cheek, skin gently tracing the crease of his cheekbone with wonder soaring through his pale blue eyes. George stares back, and Klaus can’t read his emotions—is he scared? Angry? In awe?

Klaus jerks his body back when the boy starts to struggle, a bomb detonating inside a glass jar. His hoarse voice is muffled by his restraints. There’s fright, fright and disheartening enmity in his eyes, and he’s trying—trying to say something, and it certainly doesn’t sound very pleasant. The words are reined back by the gag and Klaus is almost glad he doesn’t have to hear them… the curses would surely leave him wounded and feeling lonelier than ever.

 _Loneliness._ That’s why he kept trying to seek out the vampire in the first place, right? His relationship with Astrid, at least as far as romantic aspects go, has fallen into rags, tethered only by the threads of the scarves he still keeps in her wardrobe. As far as he’s concerned, what’s left of his emotional security is at her mercy—were she not so patient and understanding, he would’ve probably been sent crawling back to his old flat, back to that nasty teacher a long time ago. Actually, this vampire fiasco might just slam the final nail into this bloodied coffin. There’s so much trouble this could bring to her, and Klaus wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t want anything more to do with him after this.

Klaus’s hands are trembling violently now. The last thing he wants now is to be abandoned and rejected… expelled beyond reconciliation. He can’t remember the last time he’s had a good, proper snuggle, or just a cuddly date night, or anything like that. His bed is always cold and empty and so his chest, devoid of warmth and comfort. If… if he humors this vampire, if he feeds him and keeps him safe… would he love him for it? Maybe it’s just out of sheer desperation… maybe it’s just because he’s managed to sink this low, to the point where he’s willing to let a vampire hold his fragile life in its hands in exchange for some superficial, temporary warmth. But he already finds himself reaching for and yanking the gag from George’s mouth, his chest fluttering when the teddy boy sucks in a breath and lets his words settle, just a little bit, but he’s still writhing uncomfortably and Klaus can see tears forming in his eyes.

Why, _why_ did Astrid think it would be okay to lock someone up like this? Because George isn’t human, it’s alright to think he deserves subhuman treatment? He can feel things, Klaus has seen them… anger, arrogance, sadness… hunger. Maybe not all good feelings, but feelings nonetheless, and is a creature who displays feelings not a creature deserving of empathy? Klaus realizes he’s holding his breath, his heartstrings taut and muscles tense, and already his hands are reaching for and untying the ropes that bind his precious monster to unhappiness.

 

* * *

 

 

_fangsharrison_

The gag went first, then the ropes, and for a moment it felt like George was human again. As they fell away from his body the bruises started to hurt again and he turned away from the exi boy as well as he could with his legs so numb, and lifted up his shirt to see deep pink indents like conduits where each coil of the rope had been. The bruises themselves had only just started to form, and it didn’t look too bad yet. Just some patchy blueish grey further up, and an overall greyish colour. It was slightly gruesome to think that was the exi’s blood that was being cut off inside his chest… He looked up, remembering the other boy was still there. And suddenly he wondered what had in fact just happened. Why had he untied George? His face gave nothing away, and he seemed quite taken aback by what he’d done. Well, George didn’t blame him . But there was something else, something lost and lonely, almost _longing_ in his eyes. George missed it completely.

‘What do you sit there _starin’_ at me for?’ he snapped, finally able to speak his mind. ‘What’s _wrong_ with you, anyway? Cause it seems to me like ye’ve got a bloody deathwish. Take the garlic off the stairs. Take it off, you stupid idiot! Or do you want me to finish you off after all? I could turn this basement into a slaughterhouse in a second.’ But at George’s warning, the other boy did nothing except shake his head. He seemed almost like a man in his dream. Moving as if everything was slow and surreal and he couldn’t actually die, whatever happened; only wake up. Well George could easily correct that.

He lost not a second in lunging at his little exi friend, who was ready this time and lunged at him too, though maybe out of shock. They broke against one another like waves and soon were crashing around the room, against the headlands of the cold concrete walls, rolling over and over each other until George was dizzy and the exi-boy looked like he was going to be sick. George threw his counterpart off and scrambled into the nearest corner where he had been tied, reaching for the straggle of rope left there. Just as the exi was sitting up, George used it to throw around the boy’s middle and tug him roughly backwards and into George’s arms. The boy struggled, and George tried to use his legs to keep him restrained, wrapping them around the exi, but they were soon kicked away and George’s arms broke open. The exi escaped.

And that, George quickly realised, was the last of his depleted strength gone. He groaned and let his legs stretch out lax in front of him whilst he leant back into the corner, folded his arms and rested his forehead on the cold wall. He couldn’t believe the kind of luck he was having; he had never been more irrationally irritated in his life. His heart had been hammering a mile a minute out of rage and pent up aggression, but it was starting to slow. He closed his eyes and furrowed his brow deeply, giving off every indication that he wanted to be left alone. If only because if the exi boy came too close, he would see the tears prickling in George’s eyelashes.

 

* * *

 

 

_exiswannabe_

He expects it this time. While Klaus is still shocked at it… the attack doesn’t catch him off guard. He returns with a flimsy stance, and through the brief but intense scuffle, he is nothing short of frightened at this rage, this pure unbridled frustration and agony pulsing through the vampire’s stringy muscles. For a split second, the fear of death returns and he struggles—when the ropes come, something heightens and he’s desperate to get away and almost hurts George in the process. His head is pounding, his chest is pounding, a shrill voice inside his brain is clawing at his senses, shrieking, begging him to run _now_ , leave the boy _now_. Abandon him, forget it—he’s a monster and that’s all he’ll ever be.

But as George falls limp into the corner, defeated and frustrated, Klaus just can’t bring himself to do it… to abandon this poor thing without another thought. The loneliness keeps pressing at his chest, and something tugs him closer. How unfair and cruel of him would it be to take off at such a crucial moment the way others have done to him, and right then and there he resolves to make things better.

He crouches down again, legs still shaking slightly. His movements are slow and tentative, mouselike, but he creeps close enough, low to the ground so as to not be perceived as a threat. Slowly but surely, he manages to approach the vampire without invoking too much hostility.

 _What do I do from here?_ Klaus is close now, right in front of George, but now he is frustrated as he doesn’t know how to push forward—it needs more than this. This needs to be stronger, a message that his scraps of English can’t hope to convey to this boy—an action. A display of understanding and… and affection. He reaches forward, hands quivering violently, and wraps his arms around George.

The moment is priceless to him. His bad feelings are just about exorcised and they leave him, his shuddering body melting against the vampire’s and there is warmth… an alien warmth radiating from the teddy boy. Warmth that Klaus had given to him with his own blood. He hugs him tighter, drawing in shaky breaths and the fight is forgotten. The monster is forgotten. There is no threat or tension, only two skinny boys trying to get by in this cruel, unrelenting world, coming together and sharing scraps of elusive _warmth_ here in this cellar, shielded from everyone’s eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

_fangsharrison_

George couldn’t understand what was happening. His eyes had been closed when suddenly he felt arms around him, a body pressed up against his - awkwardly, all spindly limbs and shivering uneasiness. But it was an embrace. And when at the first instant he didn’t attack, he surprised even himself. The exi was holding George gently, as if in reassurance, and George felt his heartbeat quicken without warning in some kind of elated gratitude. His body seemed to revel in the touch after so long going without affection or closeness, everywhere the exi boy touched seemed to tingle and shudder with relief - but his mind itself shook itself into a conflicted panic. As the hug turned into something else, the exi curling himself up next to George with his arms wrapped around him, he started to wonder what he had got himself into at all. Before last week he would never have allowed anyone to do this to him. Would never have let the same victim come to him twice and get away alive. He had killed dozens of people, left them to die in alleyways, dry docks, their own houses. It was strange.

He was cruel and unmerciful, to everyone but this exi boy. Couldn’t quite work out why that was… But it was late, and his eyelids were growing heavy, his limbs like lead. Everything seemed hazy and soft around him, as if there were a barrier somehow shrouding him from the freezing stagnant room they were in. Warmth seemed to cocoon the two of them, making George feel like, even now, in this hostile unknown place with his future completely out of his control, he was safe. Just an illusion; but it was a comforting one.

He looked down at the exi, whose arm was still around him, fingers clutching weakly at his far sleeve. They were losing their grip now, which, along with the evening out of his breaths told George that the boy was falling asleep. And he realised then that in fact, neither of them knew whether they were going to wake up alive or dead… George could be slaughtered by police or a witch doctor in his sleep, and Klaus could be killed by George. And yet he was still here. Either he was just stupid, or he had very strong faith in George.

By now the small body of the exi had grown still against him, and George started to come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t going to leave any time soon and let George be. He was going to cling to him like this until George too fell asleep. George sighed. Deep, very deep in his heart, he was glad not to be alone. And glad that the exi boy had come down here at all and untied him. That he wouldn’t have to wake up restrained and gagged like a dangerous animal, feeling less and less human every hour. And he felt, enclosed within the exi-boy’s arms, his desire to cry rising and falling. Rising, and then ebbing away again. Whenever he felt it rising, he glanced quickly to check the exi-boy was still asleep, and then stroked his fingers over the warmed skin of the boy’s hand. The touch seemed to settle the nervous flitting of his chest.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured, confident that the other couldn’t hear him. ‘… I just get so overrun. And hungry. And both. At once. I’m sorry.’ Each word was barely more than a catch in his throat. He swallowed and lay his head against the exi’s collar. Here it seemed to be the warmest place of all, and he could feel the steady throb of blood pulsing in the boy’s neck. In his mind he asked more questions he wouldn’t dare to voice aloud in case the air could hear them and laugh at him. _Is it lonely being you?_ he wondered of the exi. _It’s lonely being me.… What are you doing here with me? Do you know I’m not going to hurt you… What are you dreaming about?_

At some point he fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

_exiswannabe_

Up until this point, all of his actions regarding the vampire had been unaware and just… foolishly oblivious. Being hurled into the face of danger this many times would have given anybody else the point—they’d have been long gone by now, hell, probably even before the first encounter. Perhaps Klaus wouldn’t have had to suffer so much this past week if he had that sort of sense. But then, where would he be? Still living his dull, lonesome life as he had been before? Trapped in that tiny flat with that nasty teacher and getting upset so often because he’d end up smearing tears all over his artwork?

Maybe it _is_ stupid… maybe it really does seem as if he has a death wish. But to Klaus, blood is a small price to pay for some good company. The vampire is scary, but he is youthful and enigmatic and filled with raw energy. He probably has stories to tell… songs to sing, feelings to share, if only Klaus knew a little more English. The exi-boy tilts his head back slightly, the back of his scalp pressing lightly against the wall, George’s head against his collar. It seems like years of neglect and loneliness have simply melted off from his flesh. His eyes are closed now, and consciousness fades in and out from his mind like waves at shore.

George says something… Klaus almost misses it in all his drowsiness. He’s—he’s apologizing… for his hunger and bad feelings. The exi-boy stirs only slightly and wonders why anyone should have to be sorry for being hungry. Perhaps the blood-drawing is a little unethical, but is Klaus not willing to give? This vampire doesn’t deserve to starve, after all, and the artist has no problem with sharing if it means he will stay by his side. _“It’s okay… You are good.”_ It’s all he can say at the moment. Perhaps when his English is better and he isn’t so sleepy, he’ll be able to say more and convey stronger, more heart-tugging messages. But for now, it is indeed good. Klaus remembers having been told, in the face of bursting emotions and flying accusations, that anything is true only in the moment you believe it is. He wants to believe that George isn’t just a monster. And he believes it in every moment, even as he finally drifts off into the undisturbed plane of slumber.

—

Astrid awakens to the noise of dull rain dying against the roof. The clouds are swirling outside the window—it is early morning, she guesses, and for a moment she entertains the idea of lying her head again and returning to sleep before suddenly remembering that there’s a fucking vampire in the cellar and this is most definitely not the time to be sleeping. She stumbles out of bed and in her drowsy haste, leaves the crucifix behind on the nightstand.

She goes to check on Klaus first. Perhaps he’ll have finally returned to his senses and will help her decide what to do with the vampire. Surely he won’t be happy about the whole thing… but knowing Klaus, he won’t act out about it. She’ll have to speak for him, Astrid thinks and shakes her head as she opens the door to his room, and— _shit. He’s gone._

 _He’s gone. Oh shit, oh shit oh shit oh shit oh—fuck! I need to think. Did the vampire escape somehow?!_ She’s all alert now and looks around wildly for a second before dashing downstairs. The basement door is left ajar, but the garlic cloves haven’t been touched— _how?!_ Astrid descends down the steps, a flurry of black cloth and panic.

The vampire is huddled in the corner, but not the same corner she had tied it to. Actually, the rope is sitting abandoned on the floor, as well as the gag. Actually, as she steps closer, she can make out the outline of a second figure curled up against the vampire and she feels alarm prying at her muscles. _Is he dead? Is he dead?!_ Actually… both boys are breathing. The gentle rise and fall of their features is familiar and almost comforting, even in the vampire’s movements.

“Klaus… _Klaus?_ ” She steps closer tentatively, afraid to get too close to the creature. Astrid doesn’t understand how the exi-boy can just curl up right next to it without cowering. _How is he asleep?!_ Maybe… maybe vampires have hypnotic powers. Maybe it had lured him down here, somehow, with something magical… maybe it’s controlling him right now. All sorts of irrational conclusions come to Astrid’s head and as much as she tries to dismiss them, her fear can’t stop her from fretting about Klaus.

Still… there’s something awfully peaceful about the sight. Klaus does look rather comfortable somehow, and the vampire… looks a little less monstrous, holding him in its arms. Almost innocent, almost as if it isn’t just a bloodthirsty demon. Almost just a poor, lost boy, almost just like Klaus himself…

 

* * *

 

 

_fangsharrison_

He kept telling himself it was just the warmth. He liked it like a drug, sought it because he had so little of it. That was all. George was a rocker. He wasn’t a little kid anymore, and if he had ever harboured any sentimentality in his skinny chest it had long since been buried away somewhere no one would ever see or find it. And he certainly wasn’t going to go looking for it now.

However, in the past few hours he had had a long time to think, and as a result had come to terms with the knowledge that he could not use this exi boy as a victim again. As much as he wanted to, he knew that the means to take that blood, though he craved it, was now beyond him. He knew, somehow, that if he tried now he would no longer be able to do it. And he had considered it, several times in fact, during the night when he found himself awake and listening to the calm, soothing heartbeat of the exi boy. But both times, it had only lasted a second. And both times he had felt disgusted with himself after the second was over, and held the other body a little tighter in his arms. As if he wanted to protect him… but from what? Himself? A knot formed itself in George’s stomach, and the rest of the night he spent feeling strangely ill-at-ease and angry with himself for reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was the monstrous part of him that he was angry with. And in stubborn defiance of it, he found himself shifting so that the exi boy was slumped against his chest, George’s arms holding him covetously and keeping him close and upright. The exi didn’t seem to mind, not that George was even considering the other boy’s feelings at this point, his mind was elsewhere. He seemed to be happy enough to fulfil the role of teddy bear to the vampire, and hardly stirred except to nudge his face into the crook of George’s neck. And they remained as they were, with George drifting in and out of consciousness until morning.

George happened to be asleep when the exi girl who had tied him up last night returned. But he hadn’t forgotten about her. And when he was roused, perhaps by her presence near him alone, he felt prickles of anger blossom all over his skin. He raised his head slowly and fixed two coal black eyes on the girl. His expression was harder than stone, his gaze deadly calm and yet sharp as a knife-edge. Their eyes remained locked onto each other for a long time. George didn’t move a muscle, and the girl didn’t dare to either.

Then, George’s eyes flitting sharply after it, the girl was reaching out an arm towards the exi boy. Without altering his gaze, George caught her hand in mid air and closed a strong fist around it, nearly crushing it a little too hard. But as soon as she tried to tug her hand away, he let her. His message was sufficiently clear, he thought. The exi was his now.

He noticed her fingers shaking a little - her face was less set with fierceness than it had been last night. And it made George wonder… his eyes traveled briefly over her person, and he noticed that yes; she was without her precious crucifix now. But still. He wouldn’t attack. Not unless she tried that stunt again. As a final gesture, George settled back comfortably into his corner and wrapped his arms a little more securely around the exi boy.

 

* * *

 

 

_exiswannabe_

Before, Klaus would have doubted that his best sleep in months will have been spent in a dingy, musty cellar, curled up against a scruffy, no-good teddy boy from the Reeperbahn—a bloodthirsty vampire, no less. And yet how many nights now has he spent alone, lying in bed, tossing and turning and wishing he was warm? How many precious winks of sleep have slipped through his fingers because he had nobody to share it with? Right now, tucked into the fiery veins of this vampire, such lamenting seems so far away. Everything is far away, save for George and his soft breathing, his skin, the childishly selfish manner in which he holds him tighter.

Astrid hisses, rubbing her hand and wincing at how sore it is from the sudden jab. A glare spreads across her face, and—she realizes there’s no weight around her neck—no crucifix. The exi-girl grimaces and, exasperated, runs a hand through her uncombed hair and shakes her head.

“What do you want with him?” She growls softly, muscles tense. She makes no more attempts to pull Klaus away at the moment—he is asleep, but perhaps he’s being held as some sort of hostage? Maybe—maybe she can’t do this alone. If the vampire chooses to attack her… she shudders at the thought. She needs help. Who would possibly do it? Not Gabi, who’d flee Germany at the very mention of a vampire… not Peter, who’d call the police just about right away. Maybe… Yes, Jürgen. He’s shy, but does have his senses about him. Hopefully he won’t mind her waking him up so early.

It’s at this point Astrid realizes she hasn’t had anything yet to eat this and begins to wonder if vampires need… _normal_ food, too. And maybe a warm bath… ~~and a little bit of love~~ she brushes the thoughts away. There will be time for it later.

“Don’t… don’t hurt Klaus. _Please._ ” She presses her lips together and takes a step back and slowly heads back up the stairs, making sure the garlic cloves are still in place before dashing out of the room.

—

When Klaus wakes up, he doesn’t move—but he sees the door is ajar, and he’s being held very, very tightly by George, and he wonders sleepily what was that commotion he had just felt a few minutes ago. Maybe Astrid had come down here—he hopes she isn’t still too upset.

“Are you—are still hungry?” Klaus mumbles, reaching a hand up to run his fingers through George’s hair. “I know Astrid stopped you last night…”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_fangsharrison_

There was something in the exi-girl’s small plea that made George feel more alone somehow. ‘Please don’t hurt Klaus,’ she had said… Would anyone say that about _him_ , if he were in the exi’s place? Would Paul, perhaps? Maybe. But he wouldn’t say it like she had said it. With the same genuine fear and worry for her friend - which almost made George want to give the exi boy straight back to her, and apologise over and over for having ever hurt him before.

It must be nice to have someone say something like that for you, he thought. Maybe if he held onto him tight enough and for long enough, the exi-boy might. He didn’t seem to need very much in order to get attached, after all. _No,_ George thought, disgusted by the possessive and monstrous part of himself all over again. That was awful. That was kidnapping and.. emotional abusing, or something. He closed his eyes and let out a silent sigh. And the sad reality that, without George manipulating and taking advantage of him like that, the exi boy never would come to really like George or care for him washed through the young vampire again. He hung his head so that he could feel the boy’s soft hair flattened against his cheek. Turned him a little so that he could feel the living heartbeat inside his skinny chest. He wished the exi would never wake up… or at least not for a while longer. He didn’t want him to be torn away from him and put in bed and given antiseptic and counselling to make him forget all about George just yet. It was inevitable, he knew. But he didn’t want it to happen yet. Just a few more hours here like this, and George knew he could be calm, and maybe even brave for whatever fate he was going to meet when that girl came back for him.

For long after the girl had left, George sat with his exi boy held close and gentle in his arms, and lost himself in somber rememberings of the last time he had been at the Kaiserkeller. Perhaps the last time he would ever perform there with his friends. Guitars and chiming piano keys and the humming of amplifiers echoed in his ears. The last song he had sung was an Elvis number at least. _‘Don’t.’_ He played it over softly in his head, humming the occasional bar or two, until after a few minutes he felt the exi boy stir against him. That warmth shifting against his chest; and a little thrill went through him as the exi lifted his face wearily, and his forehead skimmed against George’s jaw.

He had to let go of the boy now - Klaus, she had said - and he resented it as the warm body slipped away from him to sit up… and ask _that_ question. The question that set George’s nerves racing. He wished the boy hadn’t asked it. George shook his head nervously, hoping the discussion wouldn’t go any further in case he should lose control of himself. He shook his head, perhaps not so very convincingly. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m not, and I won’t hurt you again. Just, don’ worry about that. I promise I won’t.’

 

 

 


	4. 31-40

_exiswannabe_

It's been such a long time since Klaus had felt like this, he isn't sure if it's real… or even exactly what it is. He stirs slightly, with one hand now caressing the teddy boy's cheek and the other curling hardy fingers into the teddy boy's black shirt, and eventually comes to the conclusion that it's the feeling of being wanted… being desired. George… _wants_ him, doesn't he? In all his drowsiness and the confusion of the events that have taken place in the past week, he's never felt more _desired_ in his whole life. Even if only for blood, as a food source for a monster… in the moment, it's the best feeling in the world.

“But… but I am not hurt… so many— _much_.” Klaus stresses his words, and his grip on George's body tightens. He moves his body again so his head now rests on the vampire's chest, licking his chapped lips slightly. “Only a little… I promise.” And now Klaus himself is rather hungry now and he wonders when Astrid will come back. Of course… he could just walk upstairs and find some bread to nibble on, and put on a kettle for tea, perhaps. Would vampires like tea? In his drowsy state, he hopes Astrid wouldn't mind if he brings George upstairs for a cup and some biscuits…

Klaus moves himself upwards slightly—a foolish move to some, but perhaps driven only by some sort of subconscious will, and wraps his arms around the vampire's back. He lifts his chin slightly, head tilted back and his gaze flits towards the paint-chipped wall behind and above the vampire's head, and rests himself so that his slightly swollen and bruised throat is exposed before George's teethy eyes. _It only hurts a little_ , he tells himself again. That's the truth.

And it's through this action he silently wills the vampire to live on… even if only a little longer. After he's done, the two of them might be able to get out of here, and, and… and to go on an adventure, maybe. They could go back to the Reeperbahn, and George could show him some of his nifty guitar tricks… and Klaus could draw him jumping around and having fun on the impossibly small club stage with his friends. Empty beer bottles would pile up at the edge of the stage and they might get drunk together, past the point of groundedness and reason—and then what? Whatever happens, Klaus knows they won't have to be alone anymore.

Provided Astrid doesn't send George to a bloody end before any of it happens. Klaus swallows a pool of fear gathering in his mouth… he realizes just how much this newfound and fragile friendship is at her mercy. He hopes… he hopes she'll realize it too. Klaus presses his lips together and increases the proximity between his body and George's, soft turtleneck pressing against the folds of the leather jacket.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George was scared of himself again. He heard the sounds of the words he was going to say - _no, I won't hurt you, it's not right; you don't know what you're asking for_ \- in his head; but they couldn't leave his lips. He mouthed them blindly even as he leaned in ever closer and closer to the exi-boy. And the scent filled his nostrils. The empty hunger hollowed out his mind. Echoes of his heroics fading into thin air. He was no longer able to pull away. No longer able to think to, or to do so, his limbs and every part of him was too heavy. Like a sculpture filled with concrete. But he didn't want to now. He wanted to drink. Deep in the pit of his stomach, he wanted to _survive_. He leaned in and felt his cold nose press against Klaus's neck. The sound of blood rushing under the boy's skin roared like the loudest and most violent storm all through his ears. Drowning out almost every other sense. His rational mind left him, disappeared like an ice cube dropped into a hot bath at the moment George's teeth broke the soft, supple skin of Klaus's neck. George noticed his heart start beating, skipping beats as if in confusion and then racing with excitement. His eyes were closed, his dark eyelashes tickling against warm skin. And once again there was nothing but George and his exi boy. Nothing to hear, nothing to see, nothing to be afraid of. Just the rich, thick taste of blood. And a feeling beyond all imagining, but as simple as a musical phrase of three notes or less.

This time it was greater. He couldn't know why, but it was somehow easier. He hugged the boy's body close to him so that their chest were pressed firmly together, and in turn Klaus's arms gripped him around the ribs tightly, making the bruises ache a little but he hardly felt it somehow. In this moment they shared the same blood, and the same space in the universe. Their heartbeats fell into matching rhythm. It was all too much: George had lost himself. Even when the exi started to show signs of weakening - his arms starting to lose their grip around him, hands shaking a little; and those little feeble noises which couldn't quite become words. George was helpless to put an end to what was happening. Even though he could feel himself drawing the blood, could feel it flooding down his throat and filling his mouth, he wasn't doing it consciously. But he kept swallowing it. Taking it away from the one who now needed it more. He didn't know how to stop.

The boy was starting to groan and George could tell he was in pain. He cursed the exi for goading him into this, for being so stupid and naive to think he could play with a vampire like this, when he hardly even knew what one was. What it did. What innate forces were locked within it, which where what kept it alive. The boy must be desperate for something. George couldn't think about what right now. He pressed forward and lay the exi down gently on the cold stone ground, still pressed against him, lying over him and resting on his elbows as he cradled the boy's head in the crook of his arm to still have access. His lips never left that messy patch of skin on Klaus's neck.

From this angle, at least, gravity was working against him. He was slowing down. The exi seemed to more comfortable now, and he was gaining some vague colour again. His eyes starting to refocus. But George still didn't know how this was going to end. Was terrified of how it _might_ end. He prayed to all the Gods he could think of that the exi would come to his senses and push George off him. But his mind was sinking again into the abyss… Shivering. Sweaty hair plastering his forehead and Klaus's. He was getting sloppy in his technique. A little blood dripped down onto the floor, running over his bottom lip and soaking through the exi-boy's collar too. He heard the boy's breaths, frantic, but starting to stagger and slow. It was the shock, probably.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

Klaus isn't sure why, but—even here, trapped and in what could be his last hours alive, the vampire is stronger, more desperate and swift—and it's almost too quick to register, but suddenly too much blood is gone already and the familiar plane of the world seems to be knocked away from underneath him. Being pressed against the floor does little to help and he really, _really_ tries hard not to struggle but it's getting hard to breathe and his instincts kick in—finally—and he starts to squirm.

“George—Georgie…” He pleads, body shaking in small, futile spasms and his fingerss go rigid, white at the knuckles— _why is he taking so much from me now? Why… why can't I do anything?!_ “P-please, Georgie… Georgie… I can't—”

Anything after that is too choked up to be remotely coherent. It's hard enough just to breathe—Klaus shuts his eyes, trying to grasp for air, chest heaving to a rapid heartbeat. Hands reach up and tightly clench their fingers around the fabric of the vampire's loose shirt, thoughts and hopes becoming destroyed, new ones being assembled, swiftly being destroyed, rebuilt, transformed. _I… I don't want to die yet!_

He still wants to find a friend in this monster. Klaus wants to do fun things with him, like get pissed or go to parties or dance to records—things he couldn't do on his own or even with Astrid, sometimes. He wants to live a little longer, and let those times become happy and full of life so when he really is ready for the vampire to drain him for the last time, he can at least say to himself that at least he had spent the last part of his being doing something other than being lonely. Dying alone, for the past several months, had been one of his greatest fears, after all. But the vampire doesn't stop. The blood keeps being drained… the world doesn't stop to bring him out of this nightmare.

—

Jürgen is aware that vampires find Hamburg to be quite homely, and that quite a few of them find solace in the city's seediness and settle into the alleys and abandoned cellars in hopes to find poor girls and boys to feast on. But it's almost too much when Astrid practically _storms_ his house at six in the fucking morning, claiming she had captured a vampire and is keeping it in the basement but has found that it's now holding Klaus hostage and that she needs his help and slightly better English skills to negotiate with the creature.

Right, he just about thinks she's going mad. Ah, yes, after years of reading existential philosophy studies and immersing herself in black, it seems Astrid has finally snapped. But there's a wild look in her eyes and the way she insists on it that makes Jürgen… _curious_ about the situation. So it is that he decides to let her drag him to her house to show him the vampire. Her hands tremble hopelessly as she fumbles to unlock the door to the house, and as they approach the doorway to the basement, Jürgen takes note of the garlic cloves positioned neatly on either side of the doorposts before the two of them head in.

Astrid's shriek is brief, but more than enough to startle Jürgen. Never before has he seen her so wretched and jumpy and unkempt and now looking in front of him… suddenly, he understands why. Klaus doesn't look too well, lying on the floor. Would anyone, after all, as their blood is being drained and swallowed by a savage rogue vampire? Jürgen feels tension rise up inside his veins and he moves to take a step forward, ready to act, but it's Astrid who breaks into a snarl first, hands balling into fists as she stalks towards the vampire—growling now, demanding in German for the monster to get away… get away.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

The shock of the door being flung open again and the scream from the girl was exactly what George had needed to be jolted out of his trance, and almost in sheer surprise he found his teeth unlatching from the wet skin and his body flying away from the boy's. But as he got his bearings again, and saw not one but two exis now standing in front of him, he felt anger coarse through him at the interruption. He glanced down to see Klaus flipped onto his stomach, trying to claw himself across the concrete floor towards the other two and get away from George, perhaps not forever, but in his threatened state George couldn't see it as anything but an insult. He suddenly grimaced and bared his teeth, lunging at his prey and grabbing Klaus by the ankles to tug him back and finally get a grip around the boy's stomach to pull him back completely and retreat, scrambling into the nearest corner with him and hugging him tight. Just in time, too; the exi had been so close… the girl's arms were just reaching out for him. He became afraid as the girl started up her shouting again until her voice was hoarse.

He could do nothing, say nothing, only blink dumbly as she erupted into strings of furious rapid german which sounded like orders, and then insults, and then George didn't know what. He looked from her, to him; the silent, almost stoic figure standing by her side. But even though he didn't look afraid, exactly, there was something like disgust. Or interest of some grotesque kind… George's heart stammered and sunk. They looked at him like a monster. He felt now, more than ever, as if his soul had been thrown out into a world that could never understand.

Whilst the exi girl shouted and shook and covered her mouth with her hand, the man was as motionless as George was. George met his gaze and held it there very still, for what seemed like a long time. There was a mix of who-knew-what in George's deep brown eyes, but somewhere swimming in it was something unmistakeable, that glint of enmity which meant the exi man could have no doubt, that George was not tame. Not even close. Deciding that he would live up to their stupid ignorant expectations of him, if only just to scare them, to serve them right - if they wanted a monster, they could bloody well have one - George suddenly licked his lips.

He seized the exi boy with too much strength he hadn't adjusted to yet, holding him in a vicelike grip and merely hovering there behind him, with his face peeked over the boy's shoulder. 'Mine,' he informed quietly. And then, inclining his scrawny body further forwards, he placed his cheek against the pinkish stained skin of Klaus's neck and let his lips brush just barely, feather-light, over the bite marks he had recently left behind. Almost in warning. Or a challenge. Daring the exi girl, or indeed the backup 'muscle' she had brought back, to stop him. But the animosity soon faded from George as he had settled here, so close to the blood and the warmth and the soothing sound of the exi boy's breaths. It seemed to act like a balm, to soothe the natural paranoias of his mind. And before long his expression was no longer vicious, but only very serious. He observed the two closely, watching from between sooty lashes these two trespassers in their black turtlenecks. And his tongue poked out briefly and he parted his lips. It must have scared someone, out of the three. But his senses were coming back to him now, and he wasn't going to bite. Though, of course, only _he_ knew that.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

Of _course_ the vampire would attack Klaus again when she was gone. Astrid curses and simply feels so, so fucking awful and angry with herself for having believed that she could leave them alone together and not expect anything bad to happen. And now—dismay begins to stalk her—if… if Klaus dies, it will be all her fault. All her fault for having left him alone with this creature, unrestrained and eager for bloodshed and that she may as well be just as naive as he is. So she curses and curses until no more words can crawl out from her trembling lips.

And now, having diminished her pent up tension and uncharacteristic rage, she realizes there isn't much more they can do. She can go upstairs and get help or maybe the crucifix, but that means leaving Jürgen and currently disabled Klaus alone and vulnerable to the vampire. She and Jürgen can both go, but then who will protect Klaus, especially in his current state? And they can't fight the vampire with only their bare hands. Now that's stupid, perhaps even more stupid than someone who would willingly give himself up to provide for a heartless vampire. ~~ouch~~

It's all a mistake. Everything is driven into a corner, it's all a mess and now Klaus is going to die and Astrid is suffering because it's far too late to back out now.

Jürgen draws in a deep breath, the only one able to assess the situation in the strain of the deadlock between them all. Perhaps the shock had needed to set in first, but Jürgen recognizes the vampire's hairstyle and fashion choices—scruffy sticky-up hair, smothered upwards with gel, and then a gear leather jacket and trousers and black t-shirt and pointed shoes… if he guesses correctly, this vampire is, or is at least pretending to be, an Englishman or American teddy boy who is probably staying in the Reeperbahn area for some fun and crimes. And vampires typically never leave that part of the city—so why would Klaus have been in contact with one?

It's a wild guess, and he certainly doesn't know the whole story, but… Jürgen supposes it would be more likely that Klaus went to the Reeperbahn, rather than the vampire had came out. Of course. Klaus is reserved but emotionally spontaneous and frankly naive. But was still there deliberately, nonetheless. He wonders why.

“Hey…” His voice is almost unregisterable at first, but Jürgen tries to remain calm—here, the eye of the storm in between a livid mother figure, a half-dead hostage, and a hostile vampire. “Please… to-us give—Klaus. He is hurt.”

Klaus can't hear much now. He knows Astrid and someone else… Peter? _Jürgen?_ … are there, saying things. His attempts to escape are rendered futile, so he just lays limp against the vampire's body and waits for blood to leave him once more. He jerks his head up when the cold lips graze against his skin and emits a strained whimper. “Please… p-please no—no more. _No more…_ ”

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George twitched as he picked up on the quiet voice in the middle of the chaos; somehow louder by way of its minuteness than all the frantic shouting over it. He looked into the exi man's eyes carefully and didn't move, didn't give any clues as to how he was about to react to this confrontation. Whether he would attack or retreat, or simply remain vigilant with Klaus in his arms. But as he heard the tone of worry in the man's voice, the way he was trying to be reasonable and collected in order not to anger George, whilst it must have been seizing him up with terror to see his friend in such a situation, George's aggression leaked from him rapidly. His expression softened and his eyelids drooped. He looked down at the exi boy and bit his lip, trying to ignore the guilt.

He fiddled with the hem of the exi boy's shirt to distract himself, but the self-hatred would no longer be suppressed. George couldn't believe, when he saw the blueish skeletal hand grasping weakly at his leather jacket, the jumpy rise and fall of the boy's chest and the sound of his helpless whimpers, that _he_ had done this. And if these two hadn't come in when they did, he would have _killed_ Klaus. He had lost control. He hadn't felt anything, not pity, not guilt, not _anything_. It was as if it wasn't him. And he feared the next time he would have to experience that. He feared for the next person who would experience it with him.

George gave the exi one last embrace, squeezing him only slightly, very carefully and tenderly, and pressing his head against the back of the boy's neck. Then he looked slowly up at the exi man, and gave a solemn nod. At the same time he loosened his hold on Klaus and let his arms fall from around his waist. He was no longer holding him captive. He wouldn't attack. Wouldn't try to stop them. He _wanted_ the boy to be taken away from him. And when the man came forward tentatively and lifted Klaus out of George's arms, he kept eye contact. Just to reassure the man, that he wasn't about to strike. The coldness hit him like an icy wave. Crashed through his whole being and made him feel as if his breath had been pulled out of him.

'I'm sorry,' he said quietly. 'I won't resist. I promise. I- I didn't mean to.' But then, from what he had been told here and there about existential philosophy, it was actions and not intentions which dictated who you were. And you alone were responsible for your actions. There was nothing he could do to take back his actions now. And he expected the exis would not forgive him. He had to avert his eyes from the girl; she still looked so disgusted by him. But there was at least something of kindness in the man's eyes, if only because he was focused on the exi boy in his arms now. George met his gaze another time. 'Do you know they… um. Is it- humane?' he asked. Because he knew what they had to do now. It was the right thing, and George didn't mind it anymore, anyway. The city would be safer for Klaus without him in it. That alone was reason enough, even without the guilt, and the danger to everyone else.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

Klaus's now-limp body feels like lead in Jürgen's arms. He can barely even tell as to whether or not he's breathing—only the soft sobs and rapidly pacing heart give away any signs of life, any life at all. Jürgen locks eyes with the vampire when he asks the question— _is it humane?_ For a moment, he doesn't understand, but once it registers, he is overcome with some sort of… sentiment for the poor thing. He's flooded with the strangest, most gruesome images… and to his own dismay, can't imagine a vampire mercy-killing. No… no way. They're subhuman to most people, after all. He had only heard stories, but… such vivid stories they were, such _vivid_ stories indeed of captured vampires being tortured and mutilated, just because they could be, just because humans didn't regard them with empathy. Some would get used as test subjects and would be injected with all sorts of things, being dissected, being poisoned, or smashed up in the name of “science”. The images are so rooted into his mind that his vision flashes red, head throbbing as the walls bleed around him.

Jürgen can't draw his gaze away. The teddy boy's eyes are wide and strikingly frightened. Guilt-filled. There's a boyish, youthful… almost hopeful gleam in them. It's a young vampire, only turned a few years ago at most. One that hasn't fully succumbed to the serpent of bloodlust, even despite… even despite what had just transpired. Maybe he had been scared or starving or something but he is absolutely not anything like the vampires of tales, the kind of which have lived for many hundred years and are truly barbaric in nature, isolated, driven solely by instinct and little else, the true subhumans plotting against mankind. And he certainly doesn't deserve to be sentenced to the same fate as them. Maybe there's another way—a better way that doesn't involve something so cruel. Maybe there's hope for this boy, still brimming with life. But he can't think of anything that doesn't end up with someone being hurt eventually. Jürgen just shakes his head quietly, gathering Klaus's crumpled body into his arms and limping away. Maybe Klaus will figure something out, when he comes to. _If_ he comes to.

Once Jürgen and Klaus are gone, Astrid is left alone with the vampire. Her whole body is trembling violently, mouth agape in absence of words or just about anything else. Where noise is missing, only the gaping sensation of defeat fills in for it. Slowly, Astrid slumps to her knees, dumbfounded, cursed.

“I don't… hate you.” That's the first thing she says when regaining herself. In the moment, she must feel some sort of… enlightenment, as she evaluates her feelings and lets her riled thoughts settle. Astrid swallows the lump in her throat, face now a ghastly shade of stark white—a phantom. She doesn't know if what she says is true or not. “You… is—are bad. But no is because evil. Because is hungry.” She doesn't know what is going to happen to the vampire now either. Now, shrunk into the corner, alone and unhappy… it doesn't look so monstrous or threatening anymore. This moral dilemma ensnares her now—if she turns him into the police, she'll have prevented any more killings from this vampire… any more victims, or people ending up like Klaus. But would it justify her cutting off a poor boy's life so soon? To destroy his dreams and aspirations and force him to die a horrible death?

Astrid rubs her face, eyes stinging all of a sudden. Is the vampire watching her? Everything is so unfair and difficult to understand, and she can't help but think about how much easier it would be if she just held no qualms about letting him be put to death. Then everything would be over and Klaus would be okay. But at the same time, for… for some unexplanable reason, she knows in her gut that Klaus wouldn't be okay at all and that makes it even worse.

“I don't know. I don't know… I am… no have… have want-hurt. Do you have want-doing something else?”

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George's heart sunk when the exi shook his head. He'd half expected it, but, well, at least a little discretion would have been less cruel. Instead he shivered under the man's sad gaze. He must know, George thought. He knows what horrors are behind those doors of the police station. And if the disturbed look in his eyes was anything to go by, George should be twenty times as afraid as the man looked just now. He sighed, swallowed and buried his head in his knees, wrapping his arms around his forehead to shut out the room; and the sight of Klaus's horrible limp body.

A moment later he heard the door swing shut, and it was only him and the girl. She sunk to her knees not too far from George, but what she was trying to say to him he didn't really understand. And he didn't care. She was the one who had brought him down to this sodding place. This stupid cellar where he had been trapped and treated like a monster, and expected not to act like one. What had she _thought_ was going to happen? Even though she sounded as if she was softening, all that made George feel was that same twitching instinct in his stomach. Telling him that he was in close proximity to someone vulnerable, a weak potential victim. He pushed it away angrily, and somehow it went this time. He must have been that angry with it, after what happened.

With his strength ebbing out like a low tide, he saw the comfort the exi-girl needed. But it wasn't for him to give it to her. Even if he wasn't guilty, he would only scare her if he tried. He knew it felt nasty to be touched by him. He was grimy and slate-cold like a corpse. His fingers calloused from endless nights of guitar. But Klaus hadn't been disgusted by it… George only realised that properly now. No, just the opposite; the exi boy had sought out George and curled up in his arms by choice. Now George's whole body ached to think he would could have killed Klaus. He was so innocent. So… beautiful. Or he had been. Until George had met him. And done _this_ to him. Suddenly he felt sick.

He'd never felt this bad in his life. But everything has a limit, including sorrow, George thought. And it would all be over soon. George wouldn't feel guilty any more. Wouldn't miss Klaus's warmth and affection. And perhaps even, the man was wrong. Perhaps it would just be quick. George hoped Paul and John would never find out what happened to him. He didn't like the thought of them knowing all these gruesome things that he'd done and that they would no doubt do to him. Much better that he just disappeared, and Paul reassured the others that he must have just gone off somewhere, and maybe would return one day.

'Shut up,' he muttered at the girl, his voice wet and barely audible. 'Shut up.'

* * *

 

_ _exiswannabe_ _

_Why does this have to be so hard?_ Astrid trembles, lowering her gaze as she wraps her arms around herself and bites her lip. She can't bring herself to look at the creature anymore, and she can't be sure if it's because she hates him or if it's because she hates herself—hates herself for not knowing what to do.

And at the weak backlash he gives her, Astrid retreats, feeling stung and guilty herself. She stands up and backs away, lifting one hand up to smooth down her short, kinked hair. There will be blood on her hands, she knows—if she chooses to turn him in herself. And even more so if she chooses to kill him herself—perhaps a less painful fate than what the police would do, but that means she would have to watch every last breath… every last desperate struggle for survival until his eyes flicker and die forever and ever, because of her. She couldn't bear that. She could never live with it.

Astrid feels weak. And useless. There is nothing more she can do now that won't deprive her of her humanity. She slowly limps back up the shuddering staircase and vanishes. Maybe if she focuses on tending to Klaus first, the consequences will dissipate away too. That's right— _one life in exchange for another,_ she tells herself silently… _unconvincingly_.

The moments after she leaves are long and spiked with agony. It's Jürgen who puts the ghosts to rest as he slides the door open. He kicks the garlic cloves away from the doorway into a vacant corner, a safe distance from the teddy boy, and moves down to approach him. “Klaus is sleeping now.” He mutters quietly and reaches to tug at the vampire's jacket cuff. “You must sleep now too. Come.”

Jürgen almost has to drag him away, but it's not long before they escape the confines of the cellar and step outside into the cold air—stinging viciously with frost, but _free_. And he's quiet… he stays quiet as they slither through the alleys and in between the archaic buildings… the skeleton of this sin-ridden city. Through it all, he glances down every now and then and soon notices how amazingly calloused the vampire's fingers are. And how… _rocker_ he looks. Surely the pinnacle of impression for a well-versed guitar player. A guitar player who is probably in a band. The members of which are probably good, tightly-knitted friends. Friends, and a future the boy is probably longing to return to…

They are still far from the police station. Suddenly, Jürgen snaps and turns to grab the boy's shoulders and his hands are shaking but his eyes are very firm. Any consequences now are pushed away—in the moment, he revels only in hope for the vampire's liberation.

“Run. Run away now. They won't know it's you—just go before they do. You were never here. I won't tell a soul.”

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George couldn't stop looking back over his shoulder as the exi led him out into the street and in the direction of the police station. The lights in the Altona house were lit, and glowed orange against the pitch dark of the night. He was searching almost desperately for a sign of life in one of the those high windows. What he wanted more than anything was to see Klaus. To see him alive. And realise that the exi had been lying - Klaus wasn't dead. 'Sleeping,' as the man had put it, maybe to soften the blow. Though George didn't know why he'd show sympathy to the thing that had just killed his friend.

But once they had left the house behind he didn't speak, or even look up from the ground as he walked, letting the exi man keep hold of his sleeve. That was, until suddenly the man stopped in his tracks and was gripping George's shoulders with a wild look in his eyes. George couldn't believe what was happening. Run? Go home? _Could_ he? Was this some kind of cruel game; and he would call the police on to the chase as soon as George set off? But they were too far from the station. This must be real. The man must have had a change of heart. George stared up at the exi for a second; two at most; itching like a greyhound in its stall before the starting gun. Until the moment the man let go of his shoulders, and he took off in a flash. His footsteps hitting the wet tarmac hard and his breath hardly coming out at all until he was far away from the man.

He didn't know where he was going but the streets seemed to guide him, certain roads almost beckoning him, and corners appearing when he was starting to feel he was going the wrong way. Soon enough the neon glow of the Grosse Freiheit lit up the buildings in the distance, and George only had to follow the light home.

When he arrived back at the Kaiserkellar their set had just ended, though John was still at the bar with Stu, and Paul was milling around a group of young girls by the stage. 'George!' Of course he was the first to spot George, his eyebrows shooting up into his fringe before he bounded over. As George, exhausted, allowed Paul to take off his filthy jacket and boots, sit him down get him a drink, John meanwhile took a puff of his cigarette at the far end of the bar and gave a grunt as he stubbed out the end in an ashtray. 'Where the hell's that little prick been?' the leader muttered, but Stu merely stayed quiet, chancing looks at George whilst John's back was turned.

George groaned into his knees and closed his eyes, feeling as if he was underwater. Slowly drowning in the horrible guilt of what he'd done ever since he left the club. Sheridan's backing band had been setting up on the stage behind him, though the place was emptying now, and only drunken regulars were left… and that drummer from Rory Storm. He had fallen asleep in his pink jacket on a sofa near the back. The band took up a slow rendition of Maybe Baby and Paul came back over to sit next to George in the booth. A fierce wind battered the walls of the club, and George was sure it had started to snow just as he got inside. 'George… you're gonna have to tell me y'know. I mean - don't have to _now_ , but, eventually. I'm worried about you.' George looked into his friend's hazel brown eyes. 'Did you find someone to replace me?' Paul looked a little awkward. 'Er. Yeah - well not a guitarist. Ringo played rhythm for us and I had a bash at your parts.' George's eyes flitted to the stubbly, drunken shadow in the corner.

He stayed up a while longer after the others had gone to bed. Just thinking over everything that had happened. Listening to the band, until finally he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore and crept up to the Bambi Kino rooms to bed. He saw John snoring alongside a bottle of scotch tucked into his elbow and Pete passed out with his back against the wall. But instead of getting into his own bed, George crawled in with Paul and tried to find some of the familiar warmth he had sometimes felt there. Before he had become a monster. When he and Paul were just kids. When he was innocent. But as he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block out the the world around him, all he could think was _I killed him. I killed Klaus. I should be dead too._

 

 

 


	5. 41-50

_ exiswannabe _

Jürgen feels as frozen as the air around him—he just stands in place, muscles rigid, and watches the vampire scamper away. The shadows conceal his lanky sprint from the last hints of sun, long since vanished underneath the horizon, and clouds marching forward to blanket the sky in darkness. He doesn't turn around until the vampire is gone—once he is, Jürgen turns on his heels and makes his way back to Astrid's. He wonders if he'll ever see the vampire again. If he does, it will be too, too soon.

Astrid is still and numb at the bedside where Klaus's body is laid. His skin is this unhealthy, sallow hue, most certainly frightening and drained of blood, chest barely rising or falling, barely alive and Astrid is so scared for his life. She moves forward to grasp for his hand but at the slightest touch, he flinches and squirms away from her, face twisted slightly in some sort of distorted pain. She doesn't retreat, but it seems to hurt to be close to him now.

—

It takes a week for Klaus to recover enough to be able to sit up on his own and speak quietly, with a broken voice—and another week for him to start walking again. Even then, he can just barely leave his room without collapsing. His days in recovery are spent bedridden, almost comatose, and occasionally worrying about how his grades will certainly plummet now that he can't get his schoolwork done. He can barely eat, it's so hard to stomach anything, and anything he does eat is usually high in sugar content. Astrid's doctor had said something about it being good for replenishing blood. Klaus quickly developed a craving for it—occasionally, it made him feel horribly sick, but more often would he be dreaming of the taste of something sweet in his mouth.

Astrid herself is constantly hovering over him now, fussing and fretting and refusing to leave his side. At any other time, he would have enjoyed the attention—any attention at all, really—but the guilt that comes with it now is almost too much. He can't deny that the only reason that this all happened in the first place is because he had been so desperate for love. And the one person he had forced his clinginess upon is now dead and gone forever because of him.

That's right… as soon as he was well enough to ask, he had pressed Jürgen on the whereabouts of George. With an averted and reserved gaze, the photographer simply said that he had turned him in to the police and that he was in their hands now. But he knew what that meant… they both knew. And Klaus didn't say anything more except to cover his face with the blanket and, with what little strength he had left, start sobbing.

Klaus certainly doesn't know why he's even still alive now. Why he deserves to live for his own selfishness when George had only needed something to eat and was sentenced to death. It's horrible… so absolutely, unbearably horrible. And he can't tell anyone either—he can't tell anyone how he feels because he knows he'll just get a look of disapproval and disbelief. After all, who would value a vampire's life over their own? But he knows the truth.

It's three whole weeks before he's just about well enough to walk around freely without much trouble. Staring at bright lights and hearing loud noises makes his head shriek, and he is still often fazed but it's not much different from his usual behaviour. Whenever he walks past the door to the cellar, Klaus looks away—that room has too many secrets now. It's full of guilt, and his blood is still staining the floor, now dried and blackened. It'll be impossible to remove it now.

This entire house is too much, almost. Three weeks, and he hasn't gone out once. What would his collegues think? The idea of the scorned looks in their faces is enough to deter him from the outside world, but he can't stay here. That's right… there's another place for him. Neon lights and fuzzy rock music echo hauntingly through his mind. Would it be worth it? Or would it just guilt him even more?

Klaus downs a shot of scotch and throws a scarf on before he leaves. Astrid is asleep—he opens the door quietly. There's a thin blanket of snow hugging the pavement underneath his shoes now and a shudder tugs at his spine. The cold almost sends him scurrying back up the stairs, into the safety of his bed and tempting warm sheets… but he can't keep hiding forever. Klaus presses on, past the snow with footprints soon multiplying behind him, back towards that sin-ridden Reeperbahn. Back to where it all started.

 

* * *

_fangsharrison_

All at the Kaiserkellar agreed, Guitar George had been acting differently these past few weeks. When he appeared on stage it looked like he was screaming out some untold agony - sometimes to rival even John, whose voice was usually broken and hoarse about an hour before George's had gone. And afterwards he would drink like a fish, but not touch any of the party drugs going around, and then retire to bed before any of the girls even got a chance to talk to him.

Paul was bearing the brunt of the emotional weight. It worried him to no end to see his oldest friend acting so low and depressed. And maybe it was his father's voice in his head, but he was sure George was becoming an alcoholic. That night it was snowing. Very lightly at first, but now it looked like there might be a storm. Pete was having a rhythm section argument with the Hurricanes' drummer up on stage, and Stu was sitting to the side of it, drawing. Silent as a mute. Paul himself had been sat at the bar going over the revised set list for the night, scribbling out Stu's unintelligible notes and putting his own version over the top. He had been irritable and stretched-thin ever since George had changed. His eyes were tired and had bags under them from staying up nights wondering what could have happened. Wracking his brain for some detail he might have missed that night George came back. He got fed up of his revisions and chucked the pen down; ran his hands through his fringe and swung round on his stool to take in the room.

There was a peculiar young man making his way through the crowd around the bottom of the staircase, dressed in the exi gear, but it looked at least two sizes too small for him, Paul noticed. The boy was just skin and bone.  _Like George,_  his mind provided depressingly. He looked lost, and some sailor with a baldy head was trying to goad him into a bet, so Paul decided to step in. 'Hey,' he stood up and beckoned to the lad, letting him come over and lean next to Paul at the bar. 'You looking for someone?' he asked dully, taking a sip of beer and glancing around at the various prostitutes in fishnets lingering around the club. Sometimes they arranged meetings here, sometimes with clients who weren't used to this kind of place. Maybe this fella was one of those.

Upstairs over the Bambi Kino, George was breathing heavily. He'd had a nightmare a few days ago, about the cellar, and he and Paul had decided then, that whatever it was, George had to snap out of it now. Forget whatever had happened and just get through this last month in Hamburg, do the sets and get paid, until when they all returned home to Liverpool, and they would sort it all out then. George agreed. He couldn't wait to get back to England. Every time he went out now he expected to see policeman with a club standing in the shadows round every corner. He took a long drag of the cigarette between his two fingers, sucking on it as if it was an oxygen tank. As he released the smoke he heard a clatter from the corridor and turned his head to see John in the doorway, in his leathers and boots. 'There y'are Harrison. Should've know you'd be up here brooding. Moody blues time's over now, get down there we've got a show to play.' When George didn't move any part of his body, not even to give John an icy look, the leader shook his head slightly and came into the room. 'You know what I mean. Now what did Paul say - snap out of it, George. Come over 'ere I'll give you a helping hand.'

In the brightly lit bathroom down the hall, John stood with his younger bandmate in front of the mirror. They'd already wiped down George's leather jacket with wet rags and made his leather trousers tighter by safety-pinning the hems on the inside, and now John was applying the finishing touched to George's hair, greased up and back like a proper teddy boy. John threw down the comb into the sink and grinned when he saw George smirking at himself in the mirror. He clapped the guitarist on the back and told him to get down to the club within five.

'Poor old Georgie, he used to be so full o' life,' Lennon sighed dramatically as he strode up to the bar to pluck the cigarette from Paul's mouth and keep it for himself. Around ten minutes later George came down to the club, jacket collar half turned up and another cigarette in his hand. He balanced it between his lips and frowned in concentration as he approached where Stu was sitting with his sketchbook and hauled up his guitar case to start unzipping it and tuning up before the set. He really thought he might feel better, now. Maybe the guilt was losing its hold on him. Maybe… just maybe, he could try and go out to hunt in a few days. He was a vampire, and there was no changing that. No use in wanting to change it. Would John sit and cry about it all day, or would he just get on with things and take it in his stride? George grabbed his guitar by the neck and shook off the case, adjusting his biggie to exhale, accidentally sending a snowfall of ash over Stu's painting and making the artist swear and yelp. 'Sorry Stu.' George kept smoking.

 

* * *

_ exiswannabe _

It feels… worse, almost. Last time he was here, Klaus had been so focused on finding George, he barely noticed any of the regulars at the bar, and if they pestered him, he can't remember. They hadn't bothered him then, but this time, he knows he isn't here to look for anyone and suddenly everything seems to cave in around him. There are these girls—are they even girls...?—wearing fishnets and threateningly high skirts and low crops and things that he'd never see elsewhere. There are lots of sailors here, a lot of which are missing eyes or limbs or both, and one soon has him cornered with a gnarly look in his crooked smile, drunkenly trying to goad him into a game of some sorts and Klaus doesn't know what to say to him, so he's grateful when someone calls him away—an excuse for escape.

He recognizes this boy. This is… one of George's band members. A friend. A very…  _pretty_  friend. Klaus slides warily into the seat next to him and keeps his eyes lowered as he orders a drink with a quiet, trembling voice, and bringing the scarf up to cover his mouth. The boy seems fairly nonchalant and his eyes only give away the slightest hint of worry. Does he know what had become of his bandmate? Does he know what Klaus has to do with it? In any case, the exi can't bring himself to look him in the eyes. The guilt is too much to handle.

After a few minutes, the teddy boy slinks away at the entrance of another—the rugged auburnet now, with his broad face and spastic demeanor. The two of them retreat to the stage with tails entwined. The two other members are there already—the curiously tiny bassist with the shades, and the drummer. Klaus waits a little longer, but… then he shakes his head and scolds himself. Of course George won't come out to join them. Because of you, a voice jeers with menace inside his head and he realizes with a jolt that he's already almost finished with his drink. He orders another—presumably the first of many.

Soon, there's a small commotion. Klaus has his head buried in his arms, face pressed against the bartop and he can barely be arsed to look over and see what's going on. It's over soon enough, anyway. Another drink is ordered. But suddenly the room explodes with music, forcing the exi to jerk his head up from the bartop and look around.

There he is. Right there, on the stage. Playing guitar. Dancing around.  _Alive._

Klaus's concealed mouth is agape, a perfect “O” of disbelief, ears now flooding with the irresistible charm of rugged rock 'n roll and that beautiful lead guitar. Slowly, almost entranced, Klaus slides away from the bar, abandoning his third glass and limping towards the stage… towards George. Who is somehow, after all this time, alive and more vivacious than ever.

How? _How is he still here?!_  Jürgen… Jürgen had said that he had turned him in. Klaus weaves through a sea of dancers and moves close enough that his fingertips touch the edge of the stage—looking right up at him. And locking eyes. Yes, it's him. Those anguished, wild eyes with the long lashes, lidded by heavy eyebrows and complementing a cheeky snaggletoothed grin. Klaus is frozen, completely still amongst this undulating crowd. He wants so badly now to reach up and touch him. There's that craving again… craving for sugar, craving for affection. If only he could, just for a moment, reach up and make the vampire his own once more, just for a moment… just for a moment. Being down alone here is agony.

 

* * *

_ fangsharrison _

They only got a minute or so into the set before it happened. Midway through a fast-paced _'Bad Boy'_  by Larry Williams, calling out the _'bad boy's_  and  _'behave yourself!'s_  into the microphone with Paul, as John bent his voice into knots in order to croon out the lead, George caught sight of a familiar face on the front row. He turned to sing a line into the microphone again, but then did a double take, and was sure a stone had lodged in his throat. He almost wanted to be sick, almost wanted to turn and run, run like the wind, as if he'd seen a ghost - but as he locked eyes with the exi-boy, really looked deep into them as the boy gazed at him almost adoringly, he saw that it was no ghost. No zombie. He was real. He was alive!

With a scolding kick in the shin from John, George snapped back into action, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from Klaus. Klaus was alive. George hadn't killed him. He suddenly felt light… as if he was filled with helium. His head spun. He tried to carry on, and managed to get through to the next chorus, which sent the crowd into tumult. There was a scuffle as some girls started crowding even closer to get to Paul, who was kneeling down and reaching out his hand for them to touch, and when the chorus ended and the crowd started to fall back again, someone must have stepped on someone's feet and there was a low, bellowing shout and a fight began to brew, throwing everything into chaos. George's brown eyes widened as Klaus suddenly got crowded by bodies and looked to be almost crushed, until he was jostled by an elbow and fell, disappearing into the sea of bodies as he crumpled to the ground.

That was it. George took his guitar off in a flash and put it down, pushing past Paul and jumping off the stage to find Klaus sitting on his arse, trying to get back up with little success. He ignored the girls grabbing at his sleeves, and bodies knocking against him from every angle, and reached down to grab the Klaus's hand and pull him up. He was weak; that much was clear. Now, up close George could see how pale he was, and how skinny. It was little wonder he fell over. He should be in bed. The exi boy looked dazed, and even more so - perhaps even frightened - when George appeared and stood over him. But George didn't particularly care at that moment, and just shepherded Klaus roughly out of the crowd and into the alleyway where the bins were kept.

He pushed Klaus up against the damp wall and placed his arms on either side of the exi so he couldn't flee. 'What are you doing here?' he demanded. He wanted answers. Needed answers. If he'd been alive all this time, why hadn't he come and found George sooner? He'd been fucking miserable , all this time. All this time, he'd thought he was a murderer. The guilt had turned him into a wreck, and all it would have taken was just one visit. Or one message handed to some guy on the street; in Hamburg they weren't difficult to find. How hard would that have been?

But being so close to him now, George suddenly stopped and held his breath. He could feel warm radiating from Klaus. Exactly the same as he had felt that night, when they'd fallen asleep in each other's arms. When George had held Klaus tightly and they had both felt safe and warm and… he didn't know. His face was close to the exi boy's. Just a little further and he wold be able to smell the blood running through those veins in his slender neck. But he stayed where he was. The scarf, at least, was covering up the place where George had bitten. If there  _was_  still a scar, he didn't want to see it. Didn't want to think about it.

 

* * *

_exiswannabe_

When all hell breaks loose, Klaus is caught off guard. The music dwindles all of a sudden—someone is yelling, there's the sound of a beer glass plummeting to the floor and shattering into pieces. The waves of bodies suddenly surrounds him and underneath the stress he simply can't hold himself up and collapses to the floor.

Just as quickly as it happens, he's pulled out of it—calloused fingers grip his arm and he is ushered blindly away from the commotion and in his lightheadedness he can't see anything. Suddenly, he is overcome with a blast of ice cold and the distinct sound of snow crunching beneath his shoes, a brick wall pressing against his spine.

He blinks… and blinks several more times. In front of him, breathing harshly and glaring with such vibrant eyes is George. Everything seems to register then. “What am I doing here—what are  _you_  doing here?!” He sputters, nearly breathless and almost in shock again. His hands shudder but he moves them up to wrap around the boy's back… suddenly, tears are stinging at his eyes.

And they spill over, leaving Klaus gasping for air as cries escape his mouth only to be muffled by the scarf… tears streaming down his face and he immediately pulls George's body tight against his own. Waves of warmth pulsate from his body… skinny but full of love and good feelings. He wants nothing more than to never let go of him again.

“Jürgen… Jürgen say, he—he taked you to the police…” He barely manages to say between sobs, chin resting on the ted's shoulder now. “I think—thought, thought you are gone. Forever. Can not leave bed, not eat, not sleep good… always bad feelings. I thinked you are die.”

After that, his words are lost and he can only cry. He never wants to let go… never ever ever. Drinking in affection desperately, promising himself he won't lose George again. ~~A nd that he'll be more cautious about letting him drink his blood from now on.~~

 

* * *

_ fangsharrison _

'Who the fuck's Jürgen?' George snapped, not thinking clearly. But then he remembered the other exi he'd met that night, who had let him go halfway to the police station. That crook! He'd told Klaus that he was dead? Why would he do that? In fairness, George knew exactly why… to protect his friend. To stop him from coming to find George again.

He was caught off guard completely when the exi wrapped his arms around his back with the sudden strength of a python trapping its prey. But he was sure that if Klaus hadn't been holding onto him so tightly, the boy's knees would have given out by now. He was already shaking like a trauma victim, whether from the icy cold or really from shock, it was hard to tell. But George gave up, anyway. He shut his eyes and with a last twitch of frustration, he allowed himself to place his forehead down on Klaus's shoulder, breathing in the smell of his clean clothes, amongst other things. He let out a ragged breath and draped one arm over the boy's back to reciprocate the embrace. He was glad to see Klaus; there was no point in denying that. Hell, he wasn't a murderer anymore; and he'd been given a second chance with this exi boy, that was what he'd wanted wasn't it?

But there was a sudden noise from inside - someone's fist hitting a wall, or something dropping - whatever it was, it drove into George's chest ilke a shard of ice and he panicked, pulling himself away from Klaus roughly and mercilessly, worried that someone might be about to come out here and would see them. Bereft of George to hold onto, the exi boy sunk down against the wall in surprise. He was still weak. George cursed himself, realising it was just a loud noise, and looked down at Klaus just as he gave another short breath and slipped further towards the ground. George reached down just in time with lighting-quick reflex and grabbed Klaus tightly by the arm, pulling him back up and then lifting him under the knees and arms without warning.

He carried Klaus back into the club and suddenly the noise seemed deafening. John and Paul seemed to have upped the tempo and were acting even more wild in George's absence, probably to make up for him, but as soon as the youngest rocker pushed his way back in through the side door, John locked eyes with him and gave him the most evil drugged-up look he might have ever seen. George ignored him and carried Klaus to a sofa booth just inside, out of the way of the crowds of bodies surrounding the stage. 'Stay here until I finish the set!' he half ordered, half pleaded of the exi, having to shout over the hum of the amplifiers and the rowdy club noise. 'Don't leave. Promise me.'

 

* * *

_exiswannabe_

George pulls away at first. Klaus relapses into numbness at the loss of heat, feeling his knees buckle and he slides down against the wall, shivering violently… hot tears still streaming down his face. But then arms quickly move to wrap around his lanky figure and, to his surprise, George hoists him up against his body and carries him back inside. Swallowing an onset of tears, Klaus leans his head against the teddy boy's chest and takes in the pulsing heat from his flesh.

The rhythm guitarist is definitely scary, Klaus is sure of that. He has these spastic movements and hostile eyes, these twitchy and drugdrenched eyes that dart around wildly despite the glazed-over look he usually has. And it's none the less confirmed when he gives George this death glare that would have made Klaus himself scurry far away, no second warning needed. But the vampire just seems to shrug it off. Maybe he's gotten used to it.

George gently shoves Klaus off into one of the sofa booths, away from the center of the club, perhaps a little safer and more isolated from the commotion. A feeble squeak of protest escapes Klaus, but still he nods earnestly at the vampire's demands, pulling his knees up against his chest and hugging his legs, perhaps as an effort to conserve warmth. George holds his gaze for a few moments longer before slinking away to join his counterparts onstage.

Klaus watches him disappear into the crowd, one hand still outstretched as if he could still rein him back. He still wants to hold that boy. “Don't go,” a whisper forms, but is all too quickly lost in the deafening song.

Yes, what a beautiful sound. Devastatingly rugged and raw, this music—rock 'n roll, and how much it hypnotizes him now. Klaus wishes he had brought along some paper and pencils. This image of the band and his lovely Georgie jumping about ecstatically on the stage with their guitars is one that must be immortalized somehow, in the way Klaus knows best—with a drawing.

 

* * *

 

_ fangsharrison _

They finished the set with Twist and Shout by the Top Notes, and George got lightheaded with the volume of the high-pitched screams that resulted from the front few rows, and soon most of the room. The sailors sitting at their tables seemed to be getting earache too. George kept his eyes on Klaus as much as he could through the whole thing. Every few seconds he would glance back over at the sofa to make sure he hadn't left. As he let the final note ring out, bending his finger on the three strings until it felt like it might cut right through to the bone, the sweat dripping from his forehead and running down his neck into his black t-shirt, George groaned and leaned down with his hands on his knees. He caught his breath as best he could, and felt a hand come down heavy on his back. It was Paul.

'Think you should go now, Georgie,' he warned breathlessly. George cast a look to the right, where John was shouting over the din at Pete, who chucked his drumsticks at the leader's chest, and George nodded and unplugged himself just as Lennon was about to turn around. He half limped off the stage, running a hand over through his sweat-drenched mop of hair and putting his guitar down at the side of the stage. He wove through the crowd, which wasn't as tightly packed now, to his relief, and without even giving him a look, took up Klaus's hand before carrying on his way, leading the exi boy to a free booth at the back with a table.

'I'll get you a drink,' he said, almost breathing normally again. At the bar he bumped into Stu, who had put his sunglasses down for half a second, so that George could see the pink glow around his eyes. Stu looked back over his shoulder at Klaus, sitting alone at the table. 'Don't tell me you're a teen existentialist now, Geo,' he croaked, stubbing out a cigarette on the bar. 'He passed out. I'm just helpin' him.' Stu raised an eyebrow. 'Passing out at the sight of us now, are they? Hmm.' George gave him a glare and left with his drinks, heading back to the table. He slid one of the beers to Klaus and then sat down.

'Yeah, I probably owe you that don't I?' he said, the guilt starting creep back like smoke in the air. 'After… nearly killing you an' all. Shit.' He took a large gulp of his own beer, the liquid trickling down the side of the glass and over his fingers. 'Why would you come back here? You know what I am… they will have told you, won't they? Your friends. I'm sure they made it quite fuckin' clear. Christ, I thought I was gonna die in that house… she's not here is she? That crazy woman.' 

 

* * *

_exiswannabe_

It's not until they've moved to the new booth does Klaus realize he hasn't wiped his tears away. There are still wet streaks down his cheeks… a peculiar sight, and perhaps a risky one. He's heard that people who stick around in places like these particularly enjoy picking on those who appear weak at all. Crying is a taboo. Klaus feels pathetic.

The drink seems to help a little, but now that he's regained a lot of sensitivity, the bitterness of the watered-down beer is suddenly the worst thing ever, especially after having been fed sugar for weeks. In fact, he could go for something sweet right about now. Fuck. He's brought back to his senses when George starts to speak, but it's not easy for him to respond.

“I… I don't know, Not your… sorry?” Shakes his head. That's not quite right. “I know, not you… not you are bad. Mistake? No…” Not that either. “I love the music… and you, very you.” That might sound too… intimate right now, actually. Klaus frowns and bites his lip, looking down, embarrassed. There's so much to say, but so little words to convey it with. He's not even that well of a speaker in German—forget about English.

“Crazy woman… ah, Astrid.” At that, he leans back in his seat and fidgets uncomfortably. “Well, no, not here. She is not crazy! Just… I don't know. How to say? German is Verwaiste Mutter … Is mother have no childs. Very protect to friends. But she not know you… no bad. Look bad. Danger.” The way he describes it is wistful… almost sad, even despite his linguistic limits.

It's still frustrating. Klaus digs his fingernails into the wood surface of the table and sighs. How much more would he have to say if only he had his sketchbook! How many stories could a drawing tell, how many more stories than words could ever hope to. No… wait. There's still hope. Klaus's gaze flutters upwards towards seemingly nothing and he recalls the drawings he had done the first week since he had met George… drawings of George himself. Those drawings are at his teacher's flat now though. The exi grimaces, a stone sinking into his stomach. Well, it's either that or Astrid's house. And he isn't sure which one would be worse. But he has to get those drawings…

“Georgi… I am draw, I… I have draws. drawings. I want you see it… Please come see, please, please…” He feels so helpless. There's just so much desperation, so much affection he can't hope to display. Alien feelings fill up his heart and flood his lungs, threatening to burst open and send tears from his eyes. Words will never be enough now.

 

* * *

_fangsharrison_

With all the broken words and half-phrases, George couldn't really understand what Klaus was saying. But the tone of it sounded worried and distressed, even, and he found himself shaking his head as if to stop the exi from thinking all of those things. 'Stop,' he said as Klaus was starting to table about drawing, and pleading George to go somewhere, 'stop, it's okay. We'll do whatever you want. I'm not angry. You get that? Not angry. I'm not gonna hurt you; I promise.' The exi seemed to calm down a little now, and George enjoyed the lull of quiet as they sat together in the booth, just like normal people. Like drinking pals for the night. But then Klaus was talking again, and getting up and trying to get George to stand up too, so he nodded and quickly drained the last of his beer before following the exi boy through the crowd again and towards the stairs leading up to street level.

Just before leaving, though, George turned and glanced back over his shoulder into the sweaty club. John was gone. So was Pete. Paul and Stu had probably put stakes on who would end up bruised and bloody tomorrow. Nobody was around to see him leave. It was as if he were slipping out just like a ghost. And if something happened to him, they might never know. But he would have his wits about him tonight. He wasn't going to get attached or tangled up in any kind of sentiment this time. He would be smart. He liked the exi boy, but he wasn't going to die for him.

Just at that moment Klaus came scurrying down the top few stairs again to see if George was still coming, and the little rocker nodded and hurried after him. They emerged onto the Grosse Freiheit just as the snow started up again. It was like stepping into a freezer. George rubbed his hands together and saw their breaths coming out in little white puffs. He held out his hand in the space between them, and waited to see if Klaus would take it. He didn't know really why he did it. Whether he wanted to hold onto Klaus, in this part of the city, because he knew how dangerous it was, and how naive Klaus was - or whether he just wanted to. To hold hands. But whatever reason it was seemed trivial as Klaus's hand slipped into his own and he felt like he was holding an ice cube in his fist. His own body was still pulsing with heat from the intense and fierce gig he'd just played, and instead of letting go of the icy hand when he felt the impulse to, he squeezed Klaus's hand a little to try and transfer some of the warmth. Funny, how it'd been the other way around before.

'Okay, you've got me,' George smiled mischievously, 'now where are we goin'?' He let Klaus discern the direction and followed with him down the wide, bright street, walking in the pools of glowing light in ever rainbow colour cast by the neon signs overhead and on the building fronts. Along the way he kept chancing subtle looks at the exi boy walking beside him. At his mousy features, his neat hair and small sparkling eyes, thin mouth; he looked very… german. But not in the usual, intimidating way, like the big beardy German bouncers or the decidedly robust german girl who would drink like no english girl would in the clubs and hardly end up tipsy. Klaus was very small, and very quiet when he wasn't sputtering about nonsense trying to explain himself to George. And George felt very comfortable with him for those reasons. Almost familiar. Almost as if he were walking with a version of himself from another country. He didn't say any of this out loud. He was still a rough teddy boy himself.

Instead, he reached over and tightened the ends of Klaus's scarf one after the other, making sure the cold couldn't get in where it was loose around the neck. The exi twitched just a little, almost imperceptibly, but George couldn't help but notice and feel a little bad. But as soon as Klaus knew he was just going for the scarf it seemed to be alright. George offered a brief smile, and then looked back at the road. Snowflakes were falling lightly in the black night air, and settling on the two's heads and on the sleeves of their coats.


	6. 51-60

_exiswannabe_

He doesn’t know how George feels so warm. It’s freezing everywhere—such is Germany, with its constant withered state and now with winter unsheathing its claws on the city. But the teddy boy is warm still, almost scalding compared to Klaus himself. Maybe it’s the rock ‘n roll… only such sheer energy could hope to account for the warmth Klaus feels pulsing in the rocker’s fingers.

His mind is mostly elsewhere now. The clouds above his head look wonderful for exploring, albeit probably freezing. As if it could get any more freezing than this. He wishes he could still be closer to George now… so very close and tightly knitted together the way they had been in Astrid’s cellar. Here, in the envelope of winter, he just wishes he could throw away everything and convince the vampire to run away with him… somewhere far, far away from here. Somewhere that is always warm, and where they will never have to be lonely ever again.

Their path weaves between buildings, slowly trickling away from the red light district into the familiar, quiet neighborhood Klaus is better acquainted with. Thank goodness… his legs feel weak and might give away soon. He feels brittle and delicate and surrounded by cruel, cruel snow. But they come to an open square soon enough, knowing they’re getting close now because of the much larger building looming behind now-closed gates, with all its intricate trims and windows. Klaus lifts his free, quivering hand to point in the direction of the building. “My art school,” He explains curtly, almost crying. His first sanctuary after having came here to this unfamiliar city only a few years ago. Where he met Astrid, but where he’s lonely all the time. The exi feels a little homesick.

After a few moments of just gazing longingly at the art school building, Klaus reluctantly tugs George forward, onto the other side of the square. His living quarters are only two blocks from here. The maus shudders when the building comes into view. It doesn’t feel like coming home at all. Even Astrid’s basement is cozier than this. But it doesn’t look like his… roommate is home at the moment. All the lights are off.

Klaus breathes a sigh of relief and heads inside, climbing up a flight of stairs—tripping over several of the steps, still. He can’t feel his legs now, and almost collapses once inside the room. He reaches for a lamp switch before limping over to a desk blanketed in papers, sketches that will never be finished, looking for the ones he did almost a month ago when George’s face was still new to him. Every muscle in his body seems to tremble as he locates them and tugs them out of the stack, laying them out on the desk.

Suddenly, all his nerves spark to life. Would George consider this… uncanny? That almost all of this art had been done within a week of their first encounter, when they hadn’t even known each others’ names? Who does that? Who in their right mind would meet someone once—someone who almost _killed_ them—and then draw them so much, like a crazed, lovesick, desperate… Klaus looks away, his ears burning… ashamed.

Empty beer bottles dapple the floor. At his feet, they feel like dead rats. They don’t belong to him.

* * *

_fangsharrison_

As they retreated into the impossibly dark, damp flat there was hardly a temperature change at all. George’s breath still came out in flurries and if anything it was colder now that the wind wasn’t numbing him all over. He frowned as they had to pick their way carefully along the corridor, where brown glass bottles were scattered. But as they entered Klaus’s room it was a little warmer. There had been a tiny radiator set into a closed grate in the wall turned on at some point, though it wasn’t now, and the place wasn’t as bad as the rest of the flat.

He followed Klaus to the table, and saw all the drawings and watercolours and ink sketches spread out there. His brow furrowed in silent curiosity, and he felt his breath become stuck just a few millimetres from his mouth. He swallowed and leaned over the table in what could be construed as wonder. His eyes glimmered in the blackness as he half listened to Klaus, but really he was lost in the works of fiction on the table. Or, they looked like fiction. It was all much more beautiful than how George saw Hamburg. There were drawings of other clubs. But only ever from the outside. Drawings of the nicer buildings around Hamburg, and brash, black coal streaks of cranes over the shipping quays.

And then he saw what Klaus was actually trying to show him. It took him a while to get round to it, but once he saw the pictures he recognised himself immediately. Didn’t know how… he hadn’t seen his own reflection in a long time, and with each passing day the image of himself he held in his head grew more and more ugly; pale, waxy and evil-looking. But he soon realised it wasn’t himself he recognised in these pictures; it was that night. The scene was just how he remembered it in his head. The alleyway, the shadows, and his ghostly figure just visible through the haze of smeared charcoal. Smeared, perhaps with a side of a fist. He imagined Klaus creating these images, then. They were so… carefully… almost- lovingly drawn. There was a little lightness in George’s eyes, and the sharp angles of his face weren’t ugly and scrawny, but… something else. To put it another way, George thought, these weren’t drawings of a monster… He wanted to thank Klaus. He wanted to hug him and hold him for hours until Klaus knew how much George liked his pictures. He didn’t look scary. He didn’t look ugly. He looked almost… good. In a way.

His fingertips traced over the lines of soft charcoal and hard, thin pencil. He didn’t know he was damaging the drawings by touching them, but he only touched very gently. The paper just grazing under his fingertips. It felt rough, and suddenly George was hypersensitive. He could hear Klaus’s breaths in the air, his own heartbeat, slow and calm, and the gentle muted roll of a bottle in the hallway rotating in little half circles with the wind from the open window. He looked up at Klaus. ‘Me?’ he asked. He searched Klaus’s eyes, trying to find an answer in them to the question he didn’t know how to ask. Rendered almost a foreign speaker like Klaus of his own language. ‘You drew me?’

* * *

_exiswannabe_

George doesn’t look disturbed, at least. He just studies the drawings and Klaus’s breath hitches when he touches the paper and smudges the handiwork ever so slightly. Had it been anyone else, Klaus would have found himself struggling to stifle tears. His strokes are so loving and painstakingly drawn but more than enough times, someone would come along and manhandle his precious drawings, leaving them with smudges and folds and fingerprints in the memories that Klaus fights so hard to preserve. But George is gentle. His calloused fingers just barely graze the surface, and in any case, he deserves to be able to hold the drawing. It exists because of him. He had been the muse for this piece. Such striking features deserve thousands of drawings in Klaus’s book, and the artist isn’t certain of much except for the fact that this is only the first of many drawings that will be centered on his savior… George.

Klaus is almost… proud of himself. He can’t think of any other piece he’s done that conveys half as much emotion as this one. Maybe he could finish it if he cleans up the stray marks and mounts it on a nice frame and hangs it somewhere in his home. Maybe it’s not something quite ready for a gallery, but now staring into the deep, glittering eyes of the piece’s model, he already knows a very good title for it; _Red Light District._

Klaus only manages a small nod when George questions. Relief floods his lithe body—the look of awe and bashfulness on the vampire’s face washes away most of his doubts and exorcises swaths of self-hatred that had been building up until only just that moment. The validation is an immense feeling and he is simply so glad that George… likes it. Klaus has to rub his eyes but the tears welling up are still fairly obvious.

Then, after so much walking and trekking and dragging along all his emotional burdens, he can’t bear to hold himself up any longer. His legs give way and he slumps to his knees. coughs being forced from his frosted lungs. His smudged hands shiver violently and clutch the edge of the desk for support, but even that proves to be too much as his numb fingers slip away and somehow he’s suddenly pressed against the floor, staring up at George with weak, pleading eyes.

“G-georgie—” The exi’s words come out in small gasps, almost devoid of oxygen and so soaked in icy sensations. “So cold… please—i’m sorry…” Everything is weak and numb yet so so cold and it hurts and he has no energy to lose. One hand—his hand reaches forward, shivering, gripping a hem of George’s trousers for only a moment before withering back to himself.

* * *

_fangsharrison_

George couldn’t help himself. Once he had looked at the pictures of himself long enough that he could picture them in photographic detail when he closed his eyes, he moved on, taking out the papers underneath them and studying them. All drawing of the same style, but each depicting a different mood on a different street, a different corner of Hamburg. George had never known there was so much going on in the city.

Once he had seen every picture on the table, he still wasn’t satisfied. He wanted to see more. He glanced down and felt with his fingers so that he found the handle of the drawer, and pulled it out. Inside were bigger pieces of paper. Almost-finished paintings and finished ones, most in black and white and all such vividly detailed. So realistic and moody and beautiful. He pulled out each one and looked at it hard for a several seconds, before placing it down on the desktop and taking out the next one to look at. In a minute or so he had found every drawer and cardboard folder and stack of papers leaning by the desk, and looked at it all. Every drawing in Klaus’s room, it seemed like. He wanted to see everything.

He was so engaged in the process, however, that Klaus had ceased to exist in his mind. He was so small, meek and unobtrusive that he simply disappeared into the shadows. George hardly heard the boy call his name, his voice was so quiet, and it was only when he felt the figure behind him shiver and gasp that something tinged in his chest, as if he had swallowed down an ice cube, and he spun around to see Klaus crumpling to floor. He tried to reach down and catch him again, like he had before, but it was too dark and he missed Klaus’s arm barely, next feeling the small hand clutch at his hem.

He reached around and flicked on the dim lamp on the desk, then grabbed Klaus roughly under the arms and hauled him back onto the bed, laying him down and then rushing across to the radiator, putting his hand on it to feel whether it was on. But the metal was freezing cold. He found the dial and turned it to the highest setting, but Klaus needed to get warm now. George licked his lips and thought fast. Then he fought off his hot leather jacket and pulled Klaus up to a sitting position to force the exi’s small and delicate frame into the jacket. ‘Klaus,’ he said, leaning over the boy and staring at him with wide, worried eyes. ‘Klaus… it’s alright now. I’ve put the heating on.’

But Klaus looked if anything paler now. George sat down next to him on the end of the bed. He wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close so that they sat shoulder to shoulder. ‘I don’t think you can understand how much that means to me. I mean, those drawings. That you drew me.’ He didn’t know how much Klaus knew about vampires. If he knew anything about them. ‘Thank you.’ The thought went through his mind briefly to take Klaus back to his friends. To that warm house where he had been taken care of and nursed when he was sick. But of course George couldn’t do that. He couldn’t go there. It was too dangerous for him.

He felt Klaus start with fright in his arms before he heard the door. The lock had clicked, and then there was a crash. The door being kicked open. George rose immediately, all muscles tensed, mind suddenly sharp as a needle.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

Klaus winces at suddenly being hauled onto the bed and his body squirms instinctively, weakly in protest of the force acting against him. But he doesn’t have the strength to fight it either, and once he’s on the bed, wearing George’s gear leather jacket… he tucks his body into the vampire’s lanky figure and breathes out gently, regaining a vague sense of warmth. Maybe things will be okay like this. Maybe the teacher won’t come home tonight and they can just stay like this all night and it’ll be fine, it’ll be okay. The exi shuts his eyes and curls up on the bed as best as he can, in an attempt to conserve his heat, and smiles feebly at the guitarist’s words. Those are warm, he knows and he can feel a gentle pulse of heat coming from them as they are spoken. He wants to say something back, he wishes he could express his gratefulness in words too, just like George can. But there are only drawings. Maybe that’s good enough for now.

In the minutes following, everything just seems to be placid, as if to freeze and allow him to slowly shed away his numbness before continuing on. Nothing stirs, and Klaus is alone with George and his nervous, cold thoughts. And so he just has some time to… think. About all this. This is a vampire he’s snuggling with, after all. Never has he heard anyone describe them as being particularly empathetic and surely not affectionate. In his head, they’ve always been savage, bloodthirsty rogues who never cared for humans, for their prey. But the moment he had met an actual vampire—this one—it had all been proven wrong. George is very much affectionate, though tough and often hostile. But he isn’t a monster. Klaus feels safe in his presence—in his arms. And George had, on plenty of occasions, gone out of his own way to keep him safe. That doesn’t seem savage or bloodthirsty to him at all. Perhaps just about the opposite. And even now, clutching the rocker boy desperately for every last scrap of heat, there’s no threat anymore. So what is this feeling he has for the teddy boy? Why is it always so warm and so sweet?

Klaus’s thoughts suddenly disintegrate when the front door is kicked open and it bangs into the wall, the sound echoing throughout the flat and probably disturbing the other tenants of the building. He’s startled, not just because of the loud noise and how he had been torn away from his mind but because he knows who it is. And now all his fears and anxieties come spilling out from the ceiling and flood his frigid lungs.

The art teacher kicks Klaus’s door open too and the exi immediately ducks behind George—a futile move. The teacher is… drunk, by the looks of it. The slightly hunched, assymetrical stance, and the slightly contorted sagging face plastered with a glare, details the exi had picked out before in him. It’s not long before he sizes up the intruder—George—then attends his glare to Klaus and starts barking.

Klaus had heard plenty of times, usually from English and French sailors who visited Berlin and Hamburg, that German is an ugly language. It sounds harsh and awful to everyone and it’s nothing compared to the poetic English or oh-so-romantic French. Klaus doesn’t know if he agrees with them or not—he’s never given it that much thought. Maybe it is a little strange in phonetic terms. But in the moment, he knows that there is no uglier language than the words spilling out of the teacher’s mouth right now.

The maus recoils and feels tears coming back again, forcing ther way to the surface. The teacher stomps forward, pointing fingers and snapping ao hard that spit flies from in between his yellowed teeth, It’s all in rapidfire and in his exhaustion and cold, sluggish state, Klaus can’t even understand it all. He ducks his head, ears burning, feeling just so so ashamed and he just sits up, nodding slowly with “Yes sir”s and “I’m sorry”s—all empty, naturally, and it doesn’t take much more yelling and scolding and threats to fail him for his courses for the tears to start rolling down his frosty cheeks. And he especially feels awful for George has to witness everything.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

Everything about this new world of existence in Hamburg was making George come alive. He had never felt so much in such a short time before. Not even in the dizziest throes of powerful, stripped-bare rock n’ roll. He like his skin was burning up all over. Like a rash or a violent fever. He didn’t know who this man was, where he came from or whether he was Klaus’s dad… or something. But he didn’t give a fuck. For some reason, George felt it was an insult to him that this man would even step to Klaus, to come into his room and to speak to him in that tone. Let alone make him so upset - make him shiver and cry and apologise over and over like a scared child. George wasn’t going to stand for it. Nobody was going to upset Klaus now. George had already upset him enough to last a lifetime, he deserved no more harm to come to him for the rest of his life and if George had to personally see to it, then that was that.

He stepped forward, causing the man’s attention to divert onto him. Hollow bloodshot eyes fixed on him with a savagery that only comes out of people when they’re drunk. The look George returned to him was cold and unwavering, but containing more fury than he had felt in a long time. A minute seemed to pass in eerie silence, and the man seemed to not know what to do or say. George was patient. He waited. And when the man raised a shaky pointed finger and opened his mouth to start on a second round of abuse; George drew his arm back and swung a forceful left hook to land on the right side of the man’s open mouth, quickly and brutally breaking his jaw. At the same time it sent the drunkard flying, and he landed on his ribs against the hard wooden floor with a cry of pain. Blood was dribbling out the corner of his mouth and he was howling madly like an unconsolable lunatic. When George glanced back towards the bed he saw that the sight might even be too much for Klaus, whose eyes were as wide as saucers. Perhaps in shock, or horror at the gore of what had happened.

But George could only spare a look, and his thoughts didn’t linger with Klaus’s feelings. He wasn’t finished with this scum yet, and in seconds he had crossed over to his keening, moaning body on the floor and landed a kick into the soft beer belly between his drawn-in knees and arms. As the man gave another anguished cry George felt something release in his chest like a small firework. The sound of the man’s pain was like music to his ears, and he couldn’t stop himself. He kicked the man again, and again, and again, rolling him over roughly when he tried to curl up and then kicking him some more, until finally he stopped moaning. Stopped twitching with each blow to the head and stomach, and had passed out. Only now George was satisfied.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

Klaus flinches harshly just looking at the first blow happen. There’s a loud crack, and then warbled screaming and the sound of a body hitting the wall, then the floor. And he just watches helplessly as George stalks over to the teacher and… and starts kicking him. It starts with one. Then another. Suddenly, it’s like the vampire can’t stop. It’s horrifying, but the blows keep coming and coming until the shrill yells finally cease and the teacher lies on the ground, motionless. Klaus stares with wide, pooling eyes and… He fears the worst at first, but sees the small rising and falling of the teacher’s body—well, that’s alive enough for him, isn’t it? Klaus slowly brings his gaze up towards the teddy boy. He just stares down at the bested drunkard before slowly turning around to face Klaus.

Of course, he’d be lying if he denies that he thinks the teacher deserves it. Ever since Klaus had stepped foot inside the flat, he had made his life miserable. Coming home is something he dreads every day, and attending his classes is a nightmare too. None of the other students seem fazed by it and it seems he was only picking on Klaus. He doesn’t know why, even. But all the extra work and the abuse and the loneliness outweighs anything he could possibly gain by staying with the teacher. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had wished for something bad upon him. He just never really expected it to happen. And certainly didn’t expect that this is how it would go down.

It’s now when the exi boy remembers that in spite of everything, a vampire is… still a vampire. Bloodthirsty and cruel and merciless. George hadn’t hesitated to assault his teacher, and didn’t stop until he had been knocked out cold—with a broken jaw, even. And it seems like he even enjoyed doing it. What stops him from doing the same thing to Klaus? In his sudden fear, it’s all too easy to imagine not the art teacher, but himself crumpled up on the ground, receiving the blows from the guitarist’s shoes.

Suddenly, the leather jacket hugging his slim form that was warm just a moment go is ice cold. He tries his best to scoot backwards on the bed, huddling up against the wall and meeting George’s gaze but only with frightened eyes still releasing. And then he bursts, just bursts into tears, curling up tightly and shying away and the frigid air is tugging at every creaking joint in his body. It’s so hard to breathe or move or do anything but sob. “Geor—Georgie, p-please…” The broken words spill out from his mouth and pool at his feet, even more incoherent and pleading than usual. “Don’t… don’t—hurt m-me—please… ple-as-e…”

* * *

_fangsharrison_

George started to take a step towards Klaus, but he stopped in his movements almost as soon as it became apparent - that Klaus wasn’t relieved, wasn’t grateful and hadn’t been ridden of his fear by George taking out the intruder at all. It hadn’t been the man who had made Klaus so terrified a moment ago - it had been… George. George opened his mouth, taken by shock and overwhelmed with instant regret. What had he done? His eyebrows lifted slightly and his expression was not vicious or cold anymore, but more confused. His mouth opened and closed uselessly, and he spun around. His heart was beating fast still, and his hands shook at his sides, one of them dirtied with blood.

Then he turned back to the bed. He could see the lump of a body out of the corner of his eye and he tried just to ignore it, though it made his stomach turn. Not out of guilt. That man had deserved what had been done to him. But at the knowledge - the evidence - ugly and repulsive - that he had done that. That blood, those mangled cuts, pink swellings, loose hanging jaw and bent-in tooth where the bone beneath had cracked. That was his handiwork. How could Klaus not be disgusted? If George had been in his place right now he would have run a hundred miles and never come back. He shook his head uselessly, trying to convey the message he wanted- no, needed to while the words hadn’t formed yet.

‘I- I wasn’t-’ his voice was croaky and he just kept shaking his head, almost frantically. ‘I could never… Oh shit. I’m so sorry Klaus. I didn’t meant to. I didn’t mean to, I don’t know what I was doing. Please-’ unthinking, he stepped a few paces towards the bed again, but the exi flinched back even further and George’s blood turned to ice for a split second. He swallowed. ‘I thought ‘e was gonna hurt you,’ he said apologetically. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll go. But please don’t stay here. Just promise me you’ll go somewhere else.’

George didn’t know how he was going to live with himself for the next few weeks, as he looked at Klaus hopelessly, knowing that this could be the last time he ever saw him. If Klaus wanted. He’d never set foot in the district again if that was what Klaus wanted. and it was probably what was best. For both of them. They didn’t live in the same world. Klaus would never be able to come to terms with what George was - and he didn’t have to. That was George’s problem and his alone. His burden to bear. And he would never be able to live in Klaus’s world. Klaus’s friends were wise enough to know that… he supposed he had just been blinded by some residual hope, or optimism. From before he had become this. Whatever this was. The one thing George did know was that it would be cruel to stay with Klaus. To feed this- interest, the exi boy had with him. It could only end with people getting hurt.

* * *

_exiswannabe_

Wave after wave of desperation crashes over his huddled-over body. He’s scared, absolutely petrified for his life and everything is confusing, a tempest for this distorted, forbidden love—love for this monster and everything he had brought to Klaus, whether salvation or strife. And in the midst of the storm is him, the eye of the hurricane—a central point around which this disaster revolves, and yet where everything is the most placid.

And when George says he’ll go, Klaus finally manages to surface for air. In his panic, the tears stop, but only for a moment before they resume their torrents, though now for a different reason. Because he doesn’t want George to go. Yes, what a deal he had done to the art teacher; but Klaus would choose the sweet teddy rocker over him any day. He sharply outstretches his hand, breaths coming irregularly and shortly as his sobs overtake them. “Don’t—d-don’t go Georgie! I’m… I don’t… I don’t want—alone, is a-alone… lo-nely…” Now his fear has been replaced by something desperate and clingy. And Klaus reaches for him, pleading for warmth, for something to hold onto in the midst of it all.

And falls off the bed.

The exi hits the floor with a hard thud, writhing in his anguish for a few moments before rolling over and getting to his knees and, on dangerously shaky legs, trying to get up, holding onto the desk for support. He gives George a pleading look, still breathing heavy with his tears, but he gathers up a stack of all the drawings on the desk and slips them into a large folder. He gives the unmoving body in the corner a brief glance, but otherwise blocks it out of his mind. He’ll leave the door open or something—somebody will find him and take him to the hospital. And in the meantime, Klaus will have to construct an alibi.

“Go, let’s go, please, out—away, not here, somewhere else. Not good here. too much very cold…” He limps towards George, clutching the folder tightly and his lips are trembling but he’s not going to sleep here with a beat-up drunkard unconscious in the corner, and he’s not going to go anywhere without his vampire friend anymore. Klaus reaches one hand up to tighten his scarf, then to try and grasp George’s hand. They’ll go together. Somewhere warm, somewhere forgiving.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George swallowed, by this point numb to the surprise of Klaus being so fast to get over what had happened. Or, seemingly. He just nodded, and allowed Klaus to take them awkwardly back out into the street, where they started walking. Didn’t even shut the door behind them, turn off a light, anything. Not that it bothered George. He was experiencing a very strange feeling. As he walked along he felt horribly primitive, like a fawn. His instincts were all that were left in his mind; no thoughts at all, as he ambled along beside Klaus clutching his drawings to his chest. George’s hands were in his pockets, and he was watching the ground, and sometimes the breath coming out of Klaus’s mouth in little puffs of white in the air. The wind battered them to skeletons and swept up George’s unwashed shirt, making his spine tingle torturously ever now and then. But he didn’t care. Because Klaus didn’t look to be feeling the cold at all in his leather jacket. There was finally a little colour in his cheeks, like a doll. But maybe it was just the weather.

As they walked, a strange image took up occupancy in George’s head. It mildly unsettled him. He didn’t really know where it could have come from. It was of Hamburg; but in the summer. The snow had melted, with only little patches here and there, and the sun warming the buildings and flowers in the meadows. George knew that it was a year or maybe even two away from now… And in some quiet churchyard, Klaus was visiting his grave. He knew it was his, despite it being unnamed, because he was there lying under it in the ground. And when Klaus put a handful of flowers down he could smell them, and when Klaus tread over him, he felt it. Felt his footsteps on the dewy grass, so soft and careful and sweet. There was nothing rough or clumsy about Klaus. Not in the way he moved or the way he spoke. George had never met anyone quite as perfect that way as Klaus. As quiet. And in his grave, he sighed and turned onto his side to pick at a flower root.

Shaking the image from his head as he followed the exi boy down another dark, snowy street, George realised that he would miss Klaus if he really kept his promise and never saw him again. He’d find himself wanting to see Klaus, and to be with him, rather that anyone else in the world. Only half unconsciously, he started to walk a few paces closer to the exi, side by side. He didn’t speak. Didn’t change anything else. But he felt a little less unsettled now, after that waking dream. He wasn’t dead. There was no layer of dirt between he and Klaus, keeping them apart. If he wanted he could reach out and put his arm around him. Could hold his hand, and talk to him. But he didn’t. He just smiled at the exi boy.

Soon they were in familiar looking territory. George recognised the high, elegant buildings with rectangular windows and black iron balconies. But he wasn’t particularly scared. It was so dark that he could hide in the shadows, and disappear like one if he needed to. As quick as a flash of lightning in the sky. He turned to Klaus. ‘Do you expect me to come in with you?’ He didn’t know what he meant by that. It could mean a number of things, and the thought only occurred because he’d spent months living with John, whose every breath had a dozen meanings. He didn’t want to go in. But he didn’t want to leave Klaus. He didn’t like leaving him.

 


	7. 61-70

_exiswannabe_

Klaus feels new with the leather jacket. Warm. Alive. It’s something that Astrid would probably wear, though her jackets are always much softer and smaller to fit her petite form and even then her fingertips barely emerge from the ends of the sleeves. But this jacket is harder in a way, and hotter and more rocker and it feels like… George. That’s the best part—to Klaus, anyway. and it shimmers in the faint light draping over them from windows they pass together. He wants to reach over and squeeze the vampire’s hand and to hold him close forever until they were buried together, frozen in the earth for the rest of eternity.

Klaus’s footsteps cease in the presence of the Kirchherr Altona home. It seems intimidating from the outside now, but he knows the warmth inside very well. He’s desperate to get to it now so this nightmare can finally be over… so that maybe he can finally rest with George for once, with no cares at all in this world. And one of the biggest problems in such a goal is Astrid, who surely wouldn’t even be able to look at George after what had happened three weeks ago. Isn’t sure if she’d look at Klaus either. The exi maus slowly lowers his gaze, sighing, thinking.

Suddenly a vision overcomes him. A flurry of leaves flocks through the air, disturbing a silent night and out from the midst of the branches emerges a tiny shadow, and it unsheathes a pair of glorious, gnarled wings. The creature dives down, then spirals up with its wings tucked in before stretching them out over the orb of the moon… free and full of love.

When Klaus resurfaces from the omen, his eyes are wide and directly staring straight through George. He shakes his head and suddenly an idea is rattling about inside. But he’s only heard about such a thing in stories. He has no idea if it would work in real life, now… but he has to ask.

“F… I don’t know—English wo-word, in German s-say flettermaus, You… you kn-now flettermaus? C-can turn? Sit in my—scarf?” And, with shuddering hands, motions weakly to the inside of his scarf, a small space between his neck and the cloth evident now with his slight loosening it.

It has to work. Astrid will find out sooner or later—such is her perceptive and maternal way of prying. But for now he just has to focus on sneaking George in somehow. He can explain everything to her later once they’re cuddling and staying warm and causing no more trouble. He isn’t going to leave George out here in the cold, in any case.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George was already freezing in the cold, but as he frowned at Klaus, trying to get his words out in English and… mostly failing, and then the meaning suddenly became apparent, he felt even more chilled. As if someone had just asked him to jump into a frozen lake. That was his least favourite part of his new existence. And none of it was a party. The blood sucking could be enjoyable, the hunger was much like human hunger, and could be numbed with drugs. Even not being able to see his appearance wasn’t that much of a tragedy. But the bat thing, well, that was just embarrassing.

He found himself nodding, very uncomfortably, just to get Klaus to shut up and stop babbling in German. ‘Yes,’   
he muttered quietly, ‘I know flettermaus. Yes- just- hold on. I don’t know if I can-’ He gave himself a minute or so to just think about it. Was there any better option? Any other way he could get in, or anywhere else he could take Klaus without people asking questions? No. No to both. And on top of that - he had only ever been able to do it, change into one, once or twice. Some seedy bloke in a bar who’d smelt the blood on George had told him about it, and said it was no big taboo, but he hadn’t exactly been the kind of bloke who’d reassure George that something was polite and acceptable. He’d had tattoos and gelled back hair and slapped girls on the arse as they walked by.

Finally, as a breath of ice rushed down his collar, he gave in and let out a frustrated huff which plumed like dragon’s breath in front of him. ‘Screw it. Okay. Alright. Fuck. Just, er… just look away. Please. Don’t look at me.’ He waited for Klaus to turn, and then another beat, making sure the exi wasn’t going to turn around and peek. And when he felt a little more safe, and certain Klaus wasn’t going to see what was about to happen, he closed his eyes and took off his shoes. There was the sound of them being kicked roughly away across the pavement, and then silence. When George regained his vision, and hearing, though both were different now, more acute, and very strange, he was looking at the world from four centimetres above the ground.

Klaus had turned around at the sound of the shoes being kicked away, and George, hating every movement he made as the little black vermin, small and scrawny just as he was as a person - as George - started to limp towards the now huge and towering exi boy. His wings felt like paper-thin rubbery boat sails with the wind rushing under them as he gripped onto Klaus’s trouser leg and started ungracefully scrambling up him. He gripped onto the fabric with his claws, making his way up in horrible little leaps until he reached Klaus’s sleeve, and then his lapels, and decided to stop there. If he were Klaus, he wouldn’t want a bat creepy-crawling all over his neck and face. It was creepy enough going up his leg. At least, he was sure it must be. This plan had just better bleeding work.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

He almost doesn’t see George at first. The shoes are kicked away like rocks on the ground, away from the pavement—and just like that, the vampire is gone. He only notices the tiny creature in his place when miniscule claws grasp for his trouser leg and start skittering upwards, hoisting himself up the side of Klaus’s leg, then his sleeve, then his lapels. _Almost there._ The sensation is naturally discomforting at first but Klaus resists the urge to squirm. He gently pulls the new little creature into his cupped hands and before anything else, he… stares. Later he’ll regret this simply for the awkward and uncomfortable attention it poses on George but he’s in so much awe at the moment that it never grazes his mind.

The bat’s body isn’t even large enough to outlength Klaus’s handspan. He gasps softly and marvels at the existence of this… form. A part of him wishes he could be this small too. How pleasant would to be to exist not as a human burdened and troubled with responsibilities and stress, but to be, say… a mouse. A mouse to cuddle this bat so that they can rub furs and keep warm, tucked away in an attic corner somewhere shielded from the cold. “You’re beautiful, Georgi…” It’s all he can say all of a sudden. _You’re beautiful and I love you._

Then suddenly tears are threatening to spill again so he tucks the Flettermaus in the layers of his scarf, pressed up loosely against his bare neck. He adjusts it ever so tenderly as so not to discomfort George or himself. The sensation of the small, velvety patches of fur pressed up against his skin is such a strange one, and still.., so very warm. And he doesn’t know how such a tiny body emits so much heat but he welcomes it dearly and, with this warmth in his scarf, presses on back towards the Kirchherr home.

Not even a minute passes after his knocking on the door when Astrid answers and immediately ~~shoves~~ ushers him inside. And of course—such is her motherly nature—interrogates his whereabouts and why he’s holding what is basically his entire portfolio. Well, it’s not like he has to tell the whole truth, right? Klaus explains to her that he had gone back to the teacher’s flat but was harrassed once he had arrived, so he gathered up his belongings and escaped. That seems to satisfy her—no hint towards George at all.

So, at having fulfilled her curiosity, Klaus announces quietly that he’ll be returning to bed now. It’s also a truth, as he’s simply so exhausted that he can’t imagine doing much else. The stairs seem to be everlasting and unforgiving—climbing them is almost too much and he nearly collapses near the top. But with great care, he crawls the last few steps to the room that Astrid had so graciously set aside for him and shut the door behind him. Right then he slumps down against the side of the mattress and bedframe, exhaling deeply and tilting his head back. Then he reaches towards his scarf, very gently tugging the opening down so that the creature inside can clamber out without too much hassle. “Can… can change b-back now, if… if you—you a-re wanti-ing…”

And through it all, he breaks into a weak smile at the thought of everything that’s transpited. They’ve gotten this far. They’re both still alive and accounted for and even though they’re both cold, they can finally have these moments to themselves and seek out the warmth they had been craving so desperately in each other. Klaus deems it something worth celebrating and a sudden burst of inspiration surges through his brittle muscles.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George felt the soft gait of Klaus’s hurried footsteps as they the ploughed their way through windy straits, white feathers of snow falling on Klaus’s shoulders and in his hair, but not touching George, who, nestled in the pocket of space beneath Klaus’s scarf, felt nothing but warmth and safety. In this form, he always found his thoughts becoming strangely simple and basic, almost fuzzy when he tried to work out some larger problem. All he seemed to care about were instincts. Food, warmth, danger. Right now he was hardly aware of the fact it was Klaus who was carrying him. He could hardly remember his own name. That was partly why he didn’t like the bat part of being a vampire. He’d only ever felt this distant from himself when he drank with John all night and managed to keep up with him.

He was half asleep by the time they reached the house, so comfortable that he had started to let his eyes close, but as soon as they entered the draughty house, and the bright light engulfed them, he was instantly on edge. That instinct was kicking in. George remembered these cunning passages, hidden doors and evil corridors leading down into dark, dank basements where ropes and garlic were kept. He found himself suddenly starting to fidget; to ruffle his wings and rearrange himself nervously, clawing at the inside of Klaus’s scarf as if trying to get round the other side and escape through the door again. Though, of course, he wouldn’t be able to. Seeing as he’d only turned into a bat twice before now, he had never learned to fly…

Just as Klaus ventured up the first step to head up to his room, George managed to climb up and poke his head over the top of the scarf, spotting the fair-haired exi-girl and shivering involuntarily, scrambling back down into the scarf in fright. He was glad when after a few minutes, it was just him and Klaus again. He could just about make out the garbled words that the exi boy spoke. It was a little hard to understand words in English as a bat. But the tone they were said in conveyed meaning enough. George nosed his way out of the scarf and clambered down Klaus’s chest; the scratchy material was good for gripping onto, and soon he had made it across the blankets of the double bed and to the very edge. Here, though, he stopped and waited. He was sure that Klaus would know what he was waiting for. And when he thought he had given Klaus enough time to look away, he dropped down onto the floor in an awkward leap.

He coughed and took a few deep breaths as soon as he was George again. It felt odd taking in so much air for the first moment or two. And his head was swimming. He sat with his knees up and his back against the side of the bed, just getting his head together and taking in his surroundings. The room wasn’t too brightly lit, and it smelled like Klaus. A nice smell, mild and very… German. He didn’t look up at Klaus. He was still a little embarrassed, truthfully. He didn’t want to speak, but the worry was creeping in on him. ‘She’s not coming up, is she?’

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

“No… no. She have work soon. Will go. Will come back to house at evening… I think.” Really, he doesn’t actually know when she’ll come back. Sometimes she’s back after only a few hours, but other days she won’t have returned until nearly midnight. In any case, Klaus breathes a sigh of relief. It means they can finally _rest_ after everything that’s been going on. And it will be rest without spending sleepless nights bedbound and wondering if the other is still alive and fighting for life, because this time they’re together and after all this time it’ll be worth it tenfold.

His knees are weak. He can just barely start to feel his toes again—the heater hasn’t kicked in all the way and Klaus doubt it will help much at this point. The exi slowly turns his head to gaze at the guitarist, almost longingly so. He looks a little nervous, still, and almost agitated. Definitely cold. Klaus suddenly remembers the jacket and with much haste, tears it off his body and gives it back to George. “Th-thank you for this…” Never mind the sudden blast of cold that hits him. Klaus forces the shivering down; he’ll take care of it now. Inspiration is seeping into his veins as roots and he must nurture the seedlings somehow before they are devoured first by the frost. It’s not motivation to draw or even to paint, but desire to stay warm. The primal urge to build shelter and gather affection. He feels like an animal.

He turns around to grab the cushioned blankets and tugs them off the bed, laying them across the carpeted floor between the bed and the desk. Then he sweeps the pillows on top and props them up, and they serve as some sort of wall or barrier, But it’s not enough. Klaus thinks for a few moments before crawling over to the closet where more blankets and more pillows are stored, and he pulls them out and with a _thwump_ they land in the floor and the exi, fixed on his creation, starts adding more blankets, more pillows. And it does begin to resemble some sort of shelter. The inside is layered with pillows and blankets to burrow in—practically a safe haven now, and how much better will it be when being used for cuddles! Klaus visibly swoons at the idea.

He has one more blanket now and so he suspends it above the whole thing, tying each corner around something like the bedposts or the leg of a desk. It’s a roof to their shelter now. He’s not sure exactly what it is he’s constructed but it looks awfully cozy and perfect for this frigid winter. Klaus turns around to face George, who had been watchng it all with a curious gleam in his eyes.

And with that, the burst is gone and the roots, having fulfilled their purpose, wither away. The tiredness and tendrils of aching clamber up his legs once more to fill up the cavities in Klaus’s body that are left behind. He slowly gets onto his knees and then all fours, motioning for the vampire to follow him as he slips into an entrance in the pillow-wall, and burrows into the layers of blankets waiting inside.

_Bliss._

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George glanced up as his leather jacket landed on the edge of the bed, and the smell of hot sweat filled his nostrils shamefully. He quickly grabbed the piece of dirty clothing and pulled it on himself. But when he looked at Klaus, the exi boy seemed colder now. He felt a prick of confusion, as to why Klaus had taken the jacket off when he was obviously still cold. Did he think it was disgusting? Not want to wear it now that he’d seen what kind of vermin George really was. He tried not to let the paranoia get to him. But it was strange, how much he seemed to care what Klaus thought of him. Usually he didn’t give a fuck if people thought he was dirty and sweaty and loud and badly behaved - he was. And liked it that way.

‘Oh. Well what if she-’ George stopped, a frown creasing his brow as he saw Klaus was now up and rearranging all the bedding. Throwing it to the floor in a sort of ordered mess, and George’s gaze followed him with curiosity and confusion as he went to the cupboard and pulled out even more of the stuff. As if they hadn’t got enough already. Then suddenly, Klaus was gone. He had disappeared into the little tent he had made and George blinked and raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Klaus? Eh, Klaus…’

He got up and went around to the igloo of blankets, but instead of stooping to crawl through the hole between the cushions, George simply frowned in amusement and pulled the top off so that he could see inside like taking the lid off a doll’s house. Klaus looked like a dormouse burrowed in a nest. Already his skin had lost its nasty whiteness, and he looked - a bit annoyed that George had pulled his roof off him - but cozy and happy, and George didn’t quite know what to do with that. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone he knew had been cozy and happy… at the same time. He’d forgotten those two went together. Back in Liverpool perhaps. As a kid. That was the last time.

Surrendering his dignity, he climbed in and sat down against the foot of the bed, pulling the blanket back over their heads and fastening it again. Not quite to the standard Klaus had originally done. But he wasn’t a bloody builder. ‘What’s all this about?’ he asked unsurely. It was a little childish for his tastes, and even now he looked slightly uncomfortable. As if he didn’t trust himself to show that side of him. Not even when Klaus was so carelessly. This was the kind of thing John would have an aneurism right on the spot if he walked in and caught George doing. And now that he couldn’t see the bedroom door he was getting nervous all over again. He kept glancing through a small sliver of gap between the blankets, trying to watch the door and listening out carefully for footsteps.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

He breaks into smile when the vampire scurries in to join him, shifting back into the blankets to give him a little more room to squeeze in. He reaches forward a little bit to help him the rest of the way. Still does George seem rather troubled. He keeps glancing behind him, as if paranoid—paranoid as if someone is about walk in and catch him. Klaus frowns softly. This is no time to be scared or to be afraid. This fortress will keep them both safe now.

Maybe he’s a little ashamed. Klaus, being an existentialist and all, had learned to accept his vulnerability a long time ago. But this vampire is a teddy boy—the rough ‘n tumble sort, who wear tight trousers and slick their hair up so high with gel as so to give off a deadly image. Klaus only vaguely understands the motive of it all, but he doesn’t want the teddy boy to remain defensive. Not here. Not here where only Klaus is with him—where he wants him to molt his feelings of edge and to just relax and take in warmth.

Slowly, he shuffles his body closer to George’s—almost touching, then he moves just a little bit more so he can feel the warmth shedding from the vampire’s skin. He’s melting all of a sudden, as if he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life. And in a way, he has. Maybe it’s not everything he expected, but it’s everything he needs—everything he could ever want. Klaus wraps his arms around the vampire’s back, his chest moving in short, soft breaths, and tucks his chin against George’s shoulder. The chaotic and restless streets of St. Pauli seem so distant now.

“My… my brothers…” He whispers breathlessly, in danger of rambling off again. “We… we builded like th-this. Always when there is cold, we build… pillows and blankets to—warm… I love so much. So warm. And much better now, with… with you.”

 ~~ _I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you._~~ But even in spite of his mind filter, or lack thereof, Klaus just can’t bring himself to say it. Not yet. The sun is beginning to rise behind the drawn curtains. He struggles closer and resists the urge to start crying for the fourth time this night.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

When he thought it had been long enough - for the exi boy, not for him; no hugging at all would have been his preferred option - he carefully unstuck Klaus from his chest and shuffled backwards again to his original place.

He tried an awkward smile, but was sure it looked fake. All the same, he sensed that this bedding thing was important to Klaus, so he made an effort and pulled some blankets up over his knees. Within a few seconds it was suddenly very warm. He didn’t say anything for a while, and instead of being tense, the silence was extremely soporific and heavy. Like an extra layer of blankets, almost fuzzy, covering George’s head. He sunk down further against the foot of the bed and rested his head against a pillow. Soon his eyes fell closed, but he wasn’t asleep. ‘You’d better not run to mummy as soon as I fall asleep,’ he said in a gravelly voice, his neck stretched from the angle of his upturned chin. ‘You try anythin’ like last time again I’ll kill you and everyone you love.’ He couldn’t help the way the corner of his mouth turned up in a little smirk.

Then he let out a hushed sigh and turned onto his side. He was too tired to take much more precaution, and now that there was no garlic and no crucifixes around he was still a bigger threat to everyone in this house than they were to him. Even if something did happen, he’d wake up and be able to deal with it. Though of course there was no force on earth which could make him hurt Klaus again. It was now a matter of principle more than anything else. He could feel the weight of four sleepless days pressing down on him, swarming like heavy clouds, and soon enough as the first fronds of light crept through the curtains and settled over the room, the vampire was deep in sleep.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

His eyes are closed, but Klaus whines softly when he feels the vampire pry himself away. The warmth eludes him now as well and even now, surrounded by blankets and pillows, a gentle shudder comes over him. He reaches forward to try and tug George back towards himself, but then comes the threat and Klaus shrinks back with a tiny whimper, recoiling into his corner of the fort.

For a moment he wonders why he stays—why he wants to be with the vampire so badly when he can say such gruesome things so nonchalantly and smoothly, as if he’d really do it. Would he do it? But Klaus wouldn’t do that to him either. Astrid will find out on her own sooner or later but Klaus will see to it that it never gets as far as the police. He won’t let that happen. Klaus would give up his life before he gives up on his Georgi.

“ ~~ _But you are… you are—my love._~~ ” He murmurs into the pillow, but the teddy boy is already asleep. Klaus gazes at him longingly—a deep sleep has enveloped the poor boy and he wonders if he’ll notice if he tries again. Slowly, Klaus inches back towards him and wraps his arms around George’s chest, once more tucking his nose against the vampire’s neck and shifting his body so that it rests at ease. George’s jacket smells only faintly of sweat and of cigarette smoke and Klaus would’ve hated it in anyone else but for this guitarist it’s perfect and rugged.

Sleepily, Klaus shuts his eyes, causing some tears to escape from underneath his lids but he ignores them and simply cuddles the teddy boy tightly. The scent might fade a bit, he muses as he drifts off, if Astrid were to bath the poor boy…

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

It was early evening when George lifted his face out of the pillow with a sharp breath. The light was dim and soft now that the sun had set. It was a good thing there had been a blanket over his head when he had fallen so deeply asleep, otherwise the sunlight would have quickly posed a serious problem. He noticed that part of the tent had been pulled away, and he could see one half of the bedroom, softened like sea glass in the faint moonlight. Everything had been disturbed slightly. The drawing materials Klaus had been running with all the way here were now all laid out on a desk, and the bed had been made a bit better. There was a smell of old coffee in the room.

He sniffed wearily and let his face fall back into the soft pillows; but suddenly he noticed that his back was pressed up against Klaus’s thigh, and his head was so close to the exi’s chest that he could hear the thump of his heartbeat like a drumbeat reverberating in his brain. He turned onto his other side to see Klaus sitting there against the foot of the bed with his legs stretched out in front of him under the blanket and a book in his lap. George rubbed his tired eyes, hardly aware of the fact that his hair must be a mess, or that he had been sweating from the warmth during his sleep too. He was only half awake, and no inhibitions had yet crept into his mind to prevent him from nudging his head into Klaus’s side and gripping at the exi’s shirt with one hand as if he were a spare pillow as he closed his eyes again and started to doze off.

He’d never actually woken up in Hamburg and had the option to go back to sleep. Usually it was ten minutes before their next set, or being dragged out of bed for a last rehearsal by Paul. Maybe enough time for the others to get some breakfast, but usually it had to be beer and preludin. George had forgotten how good it was to have a lie-in. Even if he wasn’t going to be able to fall asleep again, he was happy just to lie there.


	8. 71-80

_exiswannabe_

Even though he had barely slept the night before, Klaus doesn't find himself sleeping for long once the sun is rising. He's not particularly any sort of night owl, but he knows enough about vampires to realize that most of them are understandably nocturnal. So this is when George normally sleeps, which is… alright. It's fine with Klaus, really, but he knows he can't lie down and snuggle here all day, no matter how badly he wants to. So after a few hours, he slips out of the tent reluctantly into the room, where the cold clutch of winter meets him eagerly. He draws a little bit and tidies up the bed and picks up books to read. Never mind that he's completely forgetting that he has to eat.

It's in the evening when George finally stirs. The exi boy is back in the fortress, wielding a little and slightly worn book, and upon feeling the vampire shifting, he glances up from the text to watch him—and is absolutely delighted when he presses closer and then immediately returns to slumber. He wraps one arm around the vampire's upper back and hugs him tightly. If there is a heaven anywhere on earth, Klaus is sure this must be it.

But then—Klaus feels his ears prick. _Oh no._ A soft buckle from elsewhere in the house, a small squeak and then a drawling groan—the sound of the front door opening, which the souris has utterly memorized. _Astrid… Astrid is back already…_

And, as is her protective nature, she checks on Klaus first. And he hadn't bothered to refix the wall of the tend facing the room door so she sees George first of all, though now he is motionless and resting and not being a nuisance as it had seemed during their last encounter.

Klaus feels his blood freeze in his veins as Astrid stares at the teddy boy for moments that stretch into forever. He can't read the expression on her face, but he's sure she won't take kindly to him now. So she approaches the fort, kneeling down at the exposed side and the exi boy is simply petrified—doing nothing to help his vampire. Will she hurt him? Will she restrain him the way she had all those days ago?

But she shakes him. She doesn't attack him… she just. Shakes him, trying to wake him up, And it works—George is up in a shot and is clearly displeased with the rude awakening. But Astrid grabs his arm and tugs on it—not too harshly. Klaus just stays still like a deer in the headlights, watching this peculiar scene unfold before his eyes.

“No! No no no no no! Filthy!” Astrid scolds, trying to pull George out of the pillow fort. “Dirt and smoke! Can not! Filthy boys must do bath or no sleep in Klaus's Decke-Fort! Must do bath first—or else !”

Klaus stares incredibly with a gaping mouth. It's not George's vampire-ness or teddy boy-ness she's concerned about, but his hygiene of all things? But now that hw thinks about it, the guitarist's clothes aren't exactly the cleanest. He doesn'r expect them to be either. Still, the vampire ordeal is still a huge deal. Why does Astrid suddenly care about his cleanliness more than his bloodlust when just three weeks ago he had nearly killed Klaus?

Maybe she's in denial. That's right. This creature who had terrorized her and her little maus boy is supposed to be dead—he can't possible be here right now. It might be someone else or she's imagining things. In any case… well, it seems like George has no say in the matter.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George was awoken not by the noise downstairs, not even by the sound of Klaus's door opening, but by someone taking his arm out of seemingly nowhere and then shaking him violently like a desperate mother of a coma patient. George immediately snapped his eyes open and drew back like he'd been scalded. But he hadn't had time to scramble away very far before oddly strong fingers were curled around his upper arm again in a vicelike grip, and pulling him up and out of the pile of bedding. He _did_ have time, however, to see exactly who it was. He'd hoped never to have to see that face again, and the sight of those kind, pale eyes alone sent a shiver up his spine.

Being dragged out into the room, George found himself giddy with the unexpected force of the girl's conviction, and of course she had the advantage of surprise. George was still trying to comprehend what was happening - why she wasn't gasping and cowering in a corner screaming about why he wasn't dead like he should be - like she'd ordered him to be. She didn't even seem very afraid. In contrast, Klaus looked terrified. For a moment George almost thought it was him Astrid was trying to hurt, and was about to try and fight her off him before he realised that she was holding onto him like a cop with a robber. Meanwhile Klaus was entreating her in rapid German and trying to get near her to make her let George go; it was heady to think that this scared, witless quality was an acquired one, and that if he stuck around much longer, perhaps he might learn it himself. To be _intimidated_ by a girl. No - he wouldn't let that happen.

But even as he was thinking this, George had forgotten that he was a monster himself. He had forgotten he could snap the necks of everyone in this house without so much as a sore wrist, and tear them to shreds like an old threadbare t-shirt. Back there, in Klaus's bedroom idyll, he had felt very human again. Even so close to the exi's heartbeat, to the thin pulse in his neck, George hadn't thought anything other than that he was tired, and wanted to rest. Suddenly remembering that he didn't want to go back in the basement - or anywhere this crazy woman wanted to take him, frankly, he tugged hard and angrily away from her grip, but she had a hold on him again within seconds. 'What?' he demanded, suddenly panicked and frowning in concern for himself. Had she said _bath_? Was that German for something? 'What'd you call me? I'm not filthy! Get yer hands off me!'

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

Klaus suddenly feels something click inside and he scrambles forward to try and tug Astrid off from George. But he's weak, and she's adamant, so in her quest to drag the vampire away he's simply shoved off to the side of their squabble.

George is very clearly pissed off with Astrid now but instead of trying to attack her, he's focusing on trying to escape—to no avail. She wrestles him out into the hall as he sputters and flails behind her, trapped in her arms and Klaus tails behind, still pleading with her all the way down the corridor as she nudges open the washroom door with one leg and flicks on the light. “Yes, you are filthy! Come on, now!”

“Klaus—turn the tap on,” The exi girl hisses as she fights to keep the guitarist neutralized. And with nothing else to do—knowing he especially is incapable of going up against Astrid, he slinks over to the tub and twists the handle on the faucet, making sure that, as the water starts to fill up, it's warm first because he wouldn't wish a cold bath in the middle of a frigid Hamburg winter on anybody. Then he scampers away, giving George a sorry look for his helplessness as he retreats to the other side of the washroom just to make sure Astrid doesn't actually intend to cause harm to him. He's not sure what he'd do if she tries.

By now, George seems to have regained some of his senses and yet, still in his sleepiness, his struggling is weaker and Astrid seizes the opportunity to start sliding his jacket and clothes off. Her actions are gentler now, not as harsh—trying to be more soothing now that she's established control over the situation. The teddy boy spits at her furiously and tries to scramble away, with words spilling out of his mouth that Klaus assumes is cussing. Then, “I'll do it meself!” Astrid seems to understand that somehow and lets go of him briefly. The vampire shoots Klaus a withering glare and he can't help but turn away as he undresses begrudgingly, the tips of his mouse-ears which were only pale that morning now very red, visibly so.

George is still glowering when Astrid forces him into the bathtub. Klaus turns around then and sees him with water splashing gently against his skin with his knees pulled up against his chest, clearly very upset with this development.

“At… At least it is better than basement, y-ya?” Klaus smiles at him weakly.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

As they came into the bathroom George stopped struggling momentarily to watch Klaus turning on the taps of the bath. So she really had meant bath… His bare feet trembled on the floor, dirty and bony, and the next second he was taken by surprise as his leather jacket was tugged off and his t-shirt started rolling up his stomach.

As the last layers of his clothes were peeled off it released a scent of old beer which clung to his skin. Spilt and drenched through his t-shirt, which he hadn't washed or possibly even taken off since. The embarrassment wasn't what was making him shake. He hardly felt any, too preoccupied with unrestrained rage and, well, _annoyance_ at all this. He only made Klaus turn away because some part of him thought that the exi might not have wanted to, and George wanted to punish him. If he was going to stand there doing fuck all then George didn't want him to get any fun out of it. If he was miserable then everybody else was going to be too.

He spat in the water just before he was pushed into it, taking some but not much satisfaction at knowing that however long she kept him in there, he wouldn't ever get 100% clean. And that was some victory. He shot Klaus a look as if he was trying to telepathically make his head explode from across the room at the tactless comment. But he did raise a compelling point… this was the same woman who had tied him in a basement overnight and tried to have him killed the last time she'd seen him. And now she was giving him a bath. What had changed? Or maybe she was just a loony. Schizophrenic, as John'd say. That must be it. He was keeping his small dark eyes eyes obstinately fixed on his leather jacket strewn a few feet away on the floor when he felt someone behind him and then a cold wet thing attacking his shoulders and the back of his neck, smelling strongly of soap. It felt slimy and horrible, and he jerked away, but a hand snapped around his arm once again.

'No, stop it! Stop that, I don't need any- look I'm clean now, just let me out, you bloody crazy-' he lifted one arm out of the water to knock the flannel out of the girl's hand, and paused in confusion to see that his arm had… changed colour. It was a shade lighter than before, and less grimy and greyish and flecked with stuff. He'd forgotten he was born with clean fingernails. But he snapped out of it quickly. That was the evidence- he was clean enough. Never mind his hair, that was the greaser look. He liked it like that. 'I'm gettin' out. Klaus, ye useless lump, get her off me or I'm gonna throw her out the bleedin' window.' He reached down to scrabble around for the plughole and unstop it, only just managing to keep his chin above the waterline and his hair safe and dry, but just then water got up his nose and he swore loudly. This was all getting too much. He was running out of energy. 'Klaus…' he entreated, his voice no longer agitated, but more pleading.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

Astrid feels a sort of sick triumph at the vampire's plight. It isn't like she wants him to be hurt or annoyed, but she absolutely refuses to let him stay in her house coated in muck and dust and stains from fuck-knows-what. She holds him in the water and scrubs gently at his skin, his shoulders and his back and arms as he squirms and hisses at her. “Klaus, go put his clothes downstairs. I'll wash them. He can wear some of yours for now.”

The exi boy steps forward and opens his mouth as if to say something, but then shuts it again. “Sorry Georgie…” He smiles weakly and gathers the vampire's garments off the floor before slinking out of the room.

“Georgie. Is your name?” Astrid turns to the vampire as she reaches for the bath salts, pouring then into the tub as he continues to sulk, rubbing his nose—probably still stinging a little. She sighs. It's kind of a nice name, too. Almost like Jürgen's name, but… English. And now she has something to call him. So it's not just the vampire anymore, which is somehow sort of nice.

Astrid shakes her head—maybe she's becoming a bit soft—attached, even. The idea of returning him to the police seems so far away now in any case. All that matters is that he gets clean and heads right back to rest afterwards. Klaus builds good pillow forts, she knows that, and this isn't the first time he's done it in her house. They're very cozy and pleasant for cuddling, and somehow… she hopes it will be enough tame Georgie. Maybe he won't be so hostile then. He had been sleeping when Astrid came and discovered him, and Klaus didn't seem threatened by his presence either.

Klaus comes back with a clean set of clothes just as she starts running her hands with water through the vampire's hair. He especially does not take well to this and starts thrashing about again, sputtering things in English which she can't quite understand. Maybe that's for the best. But the exi girl tries her best to keep him held and she gently rubs at his scalp in a motion that almost seems more like petting than scrubbing. It seems to work, if only a little, though it might just be because he's too weak to struggle much anymore. She adds a few drops of shampoo and rinses it out gently, and the soap suds are gray where they emerge. Just as she finishes washing out Georgie's hair and is reaching for a towel, Astrid notices it doesn't really stick up anymore. It might just be the wetness but it makes it look a little more like, say, an exi haircut… almost like Klaus's, for that matter.

 

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George made as big and dramatic a deal as possible out of the way Astrid's fingers through his hair tugged his head back and to the side with each stroke, and he hissed when a clump of bubbles dripped down into his eye, trying to wipe it off with his bare shoulder. He wasn't going to answer to Georgie - no. Because it wasn't his name. Not even his mother called him Georgie. And when he had finally had enough of entertaining the whims of these domestic German halfwits, he smacked the girl's hand away from his now sue-free hair and kicked the plug out of the hole with his heel, before standing straight up and not even waiting for a towel before stepping out.

Predictably, he was dripping water everywhere. It ran down his legs in little rivulets and formed a puddle under each of his feet. He could hear the girl squeaking with horror behind him, but the set frown on his face didn't alter. He snatched a towel from the rack before the exi-girl could get it for him, and carried it across the room, stalking towards Klaus as if he intended to kill him. He raked a clawed hand through his fringe, symbolically getting rid of the mop-top it had formed under the girl's hands, and making it stick up at the front again, though at very odd angles. George didn't care. He looked Klaus in the eye with a deadly, furious expression, and took the pile of clean clothes out of his hands.

'Thank you for yer help,' he said sharply. 'Remind me not to beat up any old loonies for you again in future.' He shot a glance back at the exi-girl, and then padded back across the hallway outside, trailing little watery footprints as he went. He changed into the pair of ugly trousers and a strange very thin wool jumper in pale grey that looked suspiciously like a girl's. He didn't like the way it itched against his still damp skin, and he fought it off with a look of disgust as if a slug was crawling over him. Rejected, it lay crumpled on the bed. George itched his shoulder frustratedly, his brows knitted; he just wanted to go home now.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

Astrid bites back a contempt hiss and shakes her head. “Why did I even try?” She glances at Klaus, who flinches back, perhaps in guilt. He knows she wouldn't say it out loud, but he feels it all the same—that she's upset with him for bringing this nuisance into her formerly relatively peaceful life. She showed George mercy, even bathed and rid him of all the muck coated on his skin and clothes, and his idea of showing her thanks to him is doing… this. And Klaus expected him to just behave and take it like a sensible human boy would, but he's a vampire—like hell he'd want a bath. Like hell he'd care about how he looks or smells. Astrid just turns away quietly as the exi boy slinks out of the room, figurative tail between his legs—stupid, stupid, _stupid_.

Klaus finds that, with the very obvious wet footprints staining the floorboards, George has retreated back to his bedroom. So he follows him, and to his expectations, the teddy boy seems disturbed by his presence. The exi boy notes that he's extremely displeased with the new clothes, looking squirmy about them even despite the fact that the souris had been especially careful in picking out some of his more comfortable threads. Klaus shakes his head and slowly slides his bedroom door shut. He'd be lying if he says he doesn't feel hurt.

Not just hurt, even. This buildup of emotions has been plaguing him forever now. Even if he cries now he won't be able to get rid of it all, and it won't change anything anyway. Maybe it's a little uncharacteristic of him, but is this feeling… _anger_? Would he be capable of behaving angrily towards his precious little George? Klaus is breathing heavily now. Almost gasping for air, like something inside is choking up his heart and his lungs. It needs to get out, he needs to exorcise this— _now_.

“You… y-you _brat_!” He nearly sobs when he says it. He brings his sleeves up to his eyes, trying to bury any tears that try to come with. “Why you are like that?! She helped you! She is not hurt you, no more basement or cross or rope or anything but you are still mean! Why you are so mean? I thought you are not a monster! But you are! Stop it! _Monster_!”

There, he said it. Klaus whimpers and turns away to brush harshly at his eyes. There's still more he wants to say but his throat hurts now, all choked up and swollen and if he tries to yell now he won't be able to make a noise. So slowly, Klaus slumps down to his knees and slinks over to the bed where George is standing. He hoists himself up onto the mattress and sits down, holding his head in his hands and just trying to clear his chest before moving on.

“I… i'm want Astrid see you…” He begins, slowly as he regains his senses, almost painfully so. “Not bad. Because you are not bad, I know, you are saved me, so warm and handsome and good guitar-playing. But you are so mean to her, she is not happy to you. I…” _~~love you.~~_ “I'm want her to like you. So no more hurt… please.”

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George's chest seemed to constrict as soon as he heard those words slip past Klaus's lips. They were so hateful, so direct; he hadn't been prepared at all to hear such vicious accusations from the shy and polite exi boy, and it shocked him before the words really sunk in. His face appeared blank as he listened to Klaus's words, but all the while his eyes shone with confusion and hurt. It was only a few seconds after the words 'monster' had been spat at him that George suddenly flipped like a switch. He realised what he was being called, and suddenly he went for Klaus, grabbing him by the neck in a spasm of rage and slamming him against the back wall. He didn't know what to do. His mind was swimming but he couldn't work out what it was he was feeling. Anger, or hurt, or that familiar self-hatred. He looked into Klaus's face for a long moment, just holding him there, his slender fingers tightening around the boy's neck half unconsciously, the veins in his bare arm twitching. Nothing in that moment gave away that George felt anything at all beyond the savagery that was holding Klaus unmercifully in place.

But then, he blinked. What was he doing? He _was_ being a monster. Exactly what he had been angry with Klaus for accusing him of, he was being right now. He was hurting him… Suddenly terrified of himself, he let Klaus go, watching the boy's fragile body collapse and slide down the wall. He was shaking, the hand that had been around Klaus's neck felt horrible, as if it wasn't his own, and he stammered with his heart in his throat. 'I- I'm- I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry-' But he could hardly think. He just wanted to leave. _Now._ To get away from Klaus in case he hurt him again. Without looking back, he grabbed the jumper from Klaus's bed and fled down the hallway, down the stairs and out through the front door, pulling the clothing on just as the cold hit his bare arms. He knew where to go. The only place around here that made him feel close to home. He ran on, through the posh streets of Klaus's neighbourhood, past the art school and finally to the docks.

Through the fog he couldn't see much. But he had grown up in Liverpool; he knew when he was surrounded by ships. And sure enough, as he got closer and ever smaller like a tiny figurine in a giant painting, he began to make out the towering cranes and bridges emerge from the shrouds of mist. But, unlike home, these docks were at rest during the night. The steam winches weren't screeching on rusty hinges, and the hammers were still. The great cargo ships and liners loomed up like soaring cliffs all around George, and instead of feeling power and dominance course through his veins, he suddenly felt very small and insignificant. He didn't feel like a monster anymore. That had left him now. He sat down on the edge of the quay and ran his hands through his still wet hair. He rested his chin on one bent knee and looked out over the still water and the ships and the huge hanging ropes. He felt… lonely. And cold. It was deathly cold. What he really wanted, he thought, was to see Klaus again.

Regretfully he breathed a sigh, which came out in a little plume of white to dissipate into the air over the lapping water. Then he got up, brushed the tarmac off his knees, and started to head back through the dockyard and towards Altona. His hands were in his pockets, and now his protruding ears were getting the worst of the cold. He wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve and then wiped his eyes, which had become slightly wet. Perhaps with fatigue, a general exhaustion with all that had been happening. Technically it was the middle of the day for him. He couldn't get the words Klaus had said to him to stop repeating in his head. _Brat_ … a brat, he'd called him. He'd never asked how old Klaus was, but he felt a little embarrassed now. All this time he'd been acting like he was older, and stronger, and more emotionally mature - but maybe he wasn't. He knew he wasn't… He'd have to apologise for his behaviour. He hadn't seen what was so rude about it at first, but now he'd had time to think; perhaps it was acceptable for the Bambi Kino. But he hadn't been in the Reeperbahn back then. It was someone's home.

He reached the house at a few minutes to midnight. Only one light was still lit, downstairs in what looked like the kitchen. He would have to get up another way. The building next door had a flaky black fire escape zigzagging up it which came out on a balcony at the top, from which you could jump to the next balcony along, which George was sure was Klaus's room. He was silent as the grave as he ascended the steps, and the leap from one balcony to the next wasn't very challenging with no crucifix to impede him. He opened the glass window carefully and slipped inside, standing in the blackness and letting his eyes adjust.

Soon enough he could see, and there was Klaus, lying on his side under thin covers and blankets; the pillow fort mostly disassembled, looking as if it had been kicked of perhaps just knocked over. George felt a twinge of guilt in his chest, and his conscience was riddled as he picked his way carefully across the room and climbed into bed, disturbing nothing, not even the air, not even making the mattress sink under his weight. He waited a moment, staring up at the ceiling, until he felt he wasn't ice cold anymore, then, fighting back his nerves, he turned over onto his side and put his arm over Klaus, feeling his ribs jutting out - similar to George's own - and soon finding the exi's hand tucked half under the pillow. He ran his fingers over the warm knuckles, then traced the lines of Klaus's palm, trying to calm himself, to ease his mind.

'I'm sorry,' he murmured under his breath, half knowing that he was talking to nobody. 'I'm sorry for everything. I didn't mean any of it. I promise. I promise. I won't hurt you again.'

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

The moments after George deserts him are lonely and empty and numb, save for the pain throbbing away at the insides of his chest, pressing his ribs up against his sallow skin and threatening to burst him open. If he makes any sudden movements, his veins will splay apart like streamers and flutter across the room, settling like ribbons across the bedsheets and the windowsill and the cold wooden floorboards.

Klaus slowly brings violently trembling hands up to his neck and stares at the door longingly, helplessly hoping that George will come back. But it's futile— What if he doesn't come back? A voice hisses menacingly down his throat. _Why would he want to come back? Why should he have to come back to you when you say such mean things?_ The thought forces a sob out of his mouth. Klaus hadn't meant to be cruel to him. He was just so frustrated with the way it had all transpired and without thinking, he scolded George and scared him away. And now he just wishes he could take it all back.

 _What if I never see him again?_ Klaus feels very, very cold all of a sudden. That's right—George might not come back. He might never come back. Maybe he's fed up now and he's done and he never wants to see Klaus again. And the exi boy doesn't even blame him for it—in these moments, it feels like _he’s_ the monster. He should've been gentle, he shouldn't have been so harsh. Now George won't be able to see him as anything more than all the other people who have mistreated him in his life. The exi boy chokes on a sob and now all the frustration and self-hatred is washing over him so in a fit of rage he stands up and rams his foot into the pillow fort he had worked so hard to build and he watches as the little structure shudders and collapses into a heap of blankets and pillows, now uninhabitable. Some of his pent up emotions evaporate, but his heart still feels hung and he has no energy to do anything else. So he leans down and scoops a mass of pillows and a blanket into his arms, throwing them atop the bed. Klaus sniffles softly as he climbs on top and wraps himself in the blanket, reaching to flick the lamp off and the room is quiet but most prominent to him is the coldness and the desolation and the lack of another body pressed up perfectly against his, pulsing with warmth and some sort of gruff affection, if any. It's all gone now and he'll have to start sleeping by himself again, all freezing and crying in his sleep with bitter tears and hopeless yearning. _Good job, Klaus._

—

Klaus is not sure how quickly he falls asleep, and he certainly isn't sure when he stirs again. The first thing he feels is a sudden mass of heat slithering into the bed and pressing up against his limp body from behind, pausing for a moment before tentatively wrapping an arm around Klaus's side as the other searches for his hand and grasps for it gently.

He doesn't move yet, and he's still half asleep but he can just barely hear the murmurs—George's usually abrasive voice now soft and so close to his ear, yet so far away somehow, and Klaus feels the bruises in his heart ebbing away as the vampire vanquishes his lonesomeness. Slowly, almost subconsciously, he tightens his fingers against the teddy boy's hand, willing him not to pull away now. Is Klaus forgiving George, or is George forgiving Klaus? He's too tired to think about it now but he doesn't mind much as long as they're together.

After another moment, Klaus makes a small noise and turns over onto his other side weakly so that he's facing George and he presses his chin up against the guitarist's shoulder blade with a sigh, pressing his chest up against his own and keeping one arm held tightly around the small of his back. Voormann's lips just barely graze the skin there. The souris draws in a trembling breath and tucks further in, drinking in the docile scent of distant wet snow and sea salt mixed in with Astrid's shampoo. Part of him wants to say that he's sorry too, but the words escape him as he slowly descends back into his state of slumber.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George hadn't been able to get to sleep during the night. He felt like if he let himself sleep through this he'd forget it. Klaus's hand was holding his, Klaus's arm around him, fingers resting at the base of his spine. The other boy might wake up and decide he never wants to see George again. He might wake up having had a nightmare about him. Anything could happen to change his mind; and George hadn't got the chance to apologise. He'd got up a few times, to blearily use the bathroom and forget to put the toilet seat down, and to find a glass of water and sit down at Klaus's desk opposite the bed and go through the art stored in the drawers there. So many pictures he hadn't seen, of people he didn't know, parts of the city he had never been. He could have learnt a lot from the German native.

He'd slid back into bed just before pink light started to glow behind the curtains. Klaus was still as he had been before, his arm now draped over nothing. George lifted it up and lay down under it, on his back. He stared up at the ceiling and frowned, his chest expanding with each breath and lifting Klaus's hand with it. He stared until he fell asleep. What awoke him were footsteps downstairs. His ears started to twitch before he could fully wake up, and he listened to the sound of the footsteps coming up the staircase and along the hall - only realising the implications just as the shadows of two feet appeared under the slit of the bedroom door. As the door creaked open George suddenly scrambled out of the bed, lunging for the discarded itchy jumper and clutching it to his chest as if that girl hadn't already seen him stark naked last night. He tripped over his own feet and fell back against the wall and the side of the bed, his eyes darting immediately to the window through which he'd come.


	9. 81-90

_exiswannabe_

Klaus wakes up with a jolt when the sound of something—no, _someone_ tumbling back against the wall brings him out of his sleep and forces him awake. Disoriented he reaches to his side and grabs a stray pillow, hugging it tightly before looking around. Astrid is at the doorway in her nightgown and seems rather surprised and staring at—George, who is shirtless and pressed up against the side of the bed, looking very much prepared to make a run for it if she tries anything funny again.

“Oh, I th—leave before, but… how—y-you…” Astrid tries to say something, but then just shakes her head and gives up. She was sure the vampire had fled last night. She doesn't know why but for the moment she had figured she would just rest, and now in the morning, he's returned. And he's been returning for a while. What dows he want with Klaus? Or rather, what does Klaus want with him? There's better be a good reason for all this mess he's brought into her life or else. He's caused her too much grief to dash off now. She gives Georgie a stern look before trudging forward and sliding a saucer and teacup on the nightstand next to the bed. Klaus seems lost. He ignores the cup and shifts over to the edge of the bed, tugging weakly at George's shoulder.

“Back… come back,” the souris murmurs softly with one hand clutching the guitarist's skin and the other rubbing his drooping eyes. “Is cold.” Astrid takes a step back to observe how the teddy boy will react. Depending on how well he takes it, she'll either be kicking him out the window or offering him another cup of tea and some sweets.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George swallowed and glanced skittishly over his shoulder at Klaus, whose creeping, sloth-like advances seemed somehow ominous in the current situation George found himself in, of intense stress and indecisiveness. Should he flee? Go back to the Bambi Kino and hide under his covers so he never had to face up and give the woman her apology? Or should he just bite the bullet, stand up and be a man. Even without having rehearsed what he was going to say first. He got to his feet, which suddenly felt as skinny and unstable as a newborn deer's, and with a small reassuring nod to Klaus that he would acquiesce in a minute, turned to the girl.

'M'sorry for how I behaved last night. In your home and that… I didn't mean any harm to anyone. I've just been- badly brought up, I suppose,' he tried an awkward smile at the half-joke. It was a what-would-John-say spur of the moment thing, and now he regretted it. 'I really don't want y'to see me as a monster. I can control myself, I promise. An' I really do… um, I care for Klaus. He's a nice fella. And a great artist. I don' just see 'im as… well, y'know. I know he's a real person. D'you think you could forgive me?'

If that wasn't all the words George knew to do with apologising, he didn't know what else there was for it. He'd have to get down on his knees and starts grabbing at her trouser hems like a beggar. But, of course, he wouldn't. If she didn't accept his apology now he wasn't going to suffer any further humiliation here. He would just go home. The silence after he finished speaking seemed painfully long. George fiddled with the edge of Klaus's blanket behind his back and felt the sunlight behind the curtains pushing in threateningly. He hoped to God neither of the two germans would unwittingly try and open them. For now George merely waited, licking his dry lips and then keeping his mouth closed to hide his sharp little incisors from view.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

Astrid stares at him incredulously. His words sound slurred with a heavy accent unfamiliar to her but at the same time are laced with this sheepish tone, and though most of the literal value of his English escapes her she recognizes it as… _apologizing?_ He's apologizing now? And she hates to admit it, but it feels good. To finally feel some sort of control over this wild and unruly beast—to have tamed him, in a way. It makes him feel like a sort of… human.

She isn't sure how to feel about that. She'd always been told that the devil would present himself as attractive, a charmer—and what a charmer this Georgie could be. He'd managed to bewitch Klaus with his little boyish, cheeky features, after all, behaving all sweet and cuddly only to be more than eager enough to sink his fangs into the poor maus's neck the moment Astrid had her back turned. It's happened twice already… possibly more, without her knowledge. All in all, she's not going to try and disarm him now, but she can't help but feel skeptical of the whole thing, really.

Klaus, on the other hand, is beaming softly behind Georgie, groping for and trying to tighten his bony fingers around the teddy boy's wrist, only for him to pull away jitterishly. Astrid can't help but wonder what it is he sees in Georgie that makes him hold onto him so desperately even after being used as the vampire's foodstuff at least twice now. What is it that he has that Astrid can't provide for Klaus? Why was he so eager to seek out someone else in the first place? In spite of her misgivings, the exi girl feels a twinge of jealousy pricking at her chest. Georgie's got… _something_. And Klaus, regardless of has naivety and his mousey tentativeness, seems determined enough to follow him like a lost stray puppy from one end of the earth to the next. She guesses it had been all her own fault anyway. She wasn't thinking about it at the time, but it had been a fight with her that drove Klaus into the Reeperbahn in the first place where he met the boy. She wasn't thinking about the exi boy's feelings then, but now she figures he must have been hurt and awfully lonely and deserted. She's one of his only friends, after all. But now it's too late and Georgie has invaded his mind and his heart and his blood.

“Okay… okay.” Astrid starts slowly, hands out in front of her and a lips trembling with hesitance. “You… stay here, good, I am forgive. And Georgie—no trouble, please. If it is trouble, again you go basement…” She isn't thinking much about that last part. She'd hate to do it now, having seen the contempt and distrust the vampire must've developed for her because of it. So it's only a last resort. That's what she hopes for, anyway, and she grimaces as she slowly inches her way back to the door. “I wash you-r clothes now. Stay! Sleep. I will give tea later. A-and… bis—cuits.” She's already making some mental calls to Jürgen again. She wonders if he'll be surprised that Georgie is alive.

Klaus tugs at George's arms again, his whining and protesting growing louder now, an insistent and annoying chold. “Georgie! Am cold. Come, please, bed now!!” A soft whimper and he scoots forward to keep pulling the guitarist closer and closer.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George frowned after the girl as she left them in the room. 'It's George,' he called after her, before turning back to Klaus. The exi boy was lying on his side, his pale arms outstretched towards George, fingers clawing like a cat stretching out its claws. George knelt one leg down on the mattress with a cheeky grin, all his teeth showing and his eyes overshadowed by thick, dark knitted brows as they twinkled with mischief - the knowledge that he'd pulled off the apology and was now off the hook. Klaus beamed up at him as if he was a knight in shining armour.

The Screamin' Jay Hawkins song immediately came to the young rocker's mind. It really did seem like he had Klaus under a spell. He enjoyed doing things slowly now; lifting the other leg to press his knee down into the soft bedding, and then leaning down over the exi with his hands planted on either side of the boy's chest. George had thrown aside the jumper as soon as the girl had left the room. As long as no sunlight got in, he was safest here over anywhere else in Hamburg. And he felt it. He carried on grinning as Klaus's hands reached up for him, and then just as they touched his bare skin, he rolled back heavily and lay next to Klaus on his back, staring across at the now closed door triumphantly. But his expression soon grew into a frown instead.

'I don' like that girl,' he said in an almost snarl, reliving for a moment the first night he'd spent here, after she had dragged him all the way from the docks for no reason other than to keep him captive and be some kind of vigilante, keeping Hamburg safe from his depraved bloodlust. 'Who is she, anyway? Why'd you live with 'er when y've got that other place down there that I saw… is she your sister or somthin'?'

He started to lean into Klaus now, without really thinking about his actions; his mind was stuck in the past. He hadn't realised it, but he hadn't eaten in a long time. And the sound of blood rushing in Klaus's neck was inviting just as his warm skin and gentle touch - George couldn't quite differentiate which of them was pulling him towards the exi. He lay his head next to Klaus's neck, just so that the tip of his nose grazed it and his lips tingled at the nearness of blood. But it wasn't that that George thought he was drawn to. It was just a friendly sort of affection… so he thought. 'She acts all woman of the 'ouse,' he carried on with a smirk, 'but she lets a vampire stay right up here, in the same bed as you. Must be the dumbest existentialist I've ever met.'

As George's tongue flickered out to wet his lips innocently, it caught the skin of Klaus's neck, and suddenly a jolt went from George's chest right down into his stomach. He swallowed, feeling suddenly ill-at-ease, but simply willed himself to ignore it.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

Klaus is startled suddenly by the unwelcome sensation of George's tongue against the sensitive skin of his neck and he can't help but flinch back. He feels himself tense up and he pushes himself a few inches away from the teddy, his gaze now tentative and his movements squirmish. That's right… when has the vampire last fed? He has no idea. For all Klaus knows, he might not have eaten anything since his last encounter with him in the basement three weeks ago, quickly spiraling out of control and greedily lapping at every drop that spilled. Klaus doesn't want to admit it to himself but he knows he would have been killed had Astrid and Jürgen not intervened. It's not like he'd ever starve his little Georgie on purpose but the way it had all gotten out of hand so quickly and lethally makes him cautious to let him latch on again. He had almost forgotten he's dealing with a vampire, after all. And bloodthirst has to be satiated one way or another.

And never mind bloodlust. Is he saying… mean things about Astrid? Klaus winces and averts his gaze, trying not to show his hurt but it's getting hard when he's still so tired and emotional and… hungry himself. When was the last time he’s eaten anything? Suddenly his chest and abdomen feel very, very hollow. “N-no, Astrid is… my girlfriend, kind—of. Well, she-I… She-and-I fighted I not know now. Maybe she is hate me. She care though, like—l-like mother, always, so I stay okay and—s-he care even though…” … it's complicated, he wants to say, but he doesn't know how so his voice dwindles off weakly. Klaus isn't sure why they were ever together in the first place. He can't keep up with her, really. She's so elegant and graceful and smart and then there's him, a doormat, a total _graue maus_. Astrid is really something different and Klaus is sure she only approached him in the first place out of pity for him. He'd met all his Hamburg friends through her. She had given him means to life outside of his isolation and he can't ever repay her for it and even now he's just making it all worse, making it all just so much harder and more dangerous than it has to be.

On top of that, Astrid's… pushy. And fussy. Just like an actual mother would be, in all honesty. Plus, she's always taking the lead, always setting new rules or trends and she has to have it her way or else she quickly becomes despondent. Klaus, on the other hand, is more of a follower. He feels like clay in her dainty, lithe hands. She could squeeze him and bend him to her will and he would helplessly obey the slightest stroke of her fingertips. It's through her he's worth anything at all, with his exi haircut and his long scarfs and Jean Sartre and what-the-hell. Those had all been things Astrid did to him. Maybe what he had with her wasn't perfect, but it sure as fuck is better than anything Klaus could have conjured on his own. And he can't stand to have George just badmouth her like that.

“She… sh-she is no-t—dumb!” He protests smally, fingers furling up tensely against his palm. “She is trust you, okay? So—so… s-so just!! Be good!!” The exi boy draws in a breath and taking a moment to allow the words to settle before advancing forwards once more, trying to adjust to the guitarist's presence. Slowly, he moves arms forward and wraps them around George's back so that he can't flee yet. Klaus presses his nose up near his neck, similar to what George had just done to him. And his lips tremble softly but without thinking too hard, he lets them graze against the exposed skin above the teddy's collarbone. Slowly growing a little braver, he presses a tiny kiss right there too.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George recoiled at the feeling of the kiss to his neck. In the moment it was the worst thing he had ever felt. It made his stomach lurch and his head fill suddenly with cement. It was too close; too much. Surely Klaus knew how much effort George had to put into controlling himself around, well, he hated to say it but, _prey_. That exi boy had a lot of nerve. But it wasn't just that. In fact, George hadn't been sparked into sudden bloodthirstiness by the touch. The sudden shock of realising his situation had shut off most other avenues of thought. He was in the same bed as this kid, he was wearing not that much, and he'd been teasing him like he did with the other lads on usual drunken nights at the Kaiserkellar - but this was different. _Klaus_ was different. This was, technically, leading him on. And George had hardly even stopped to think about the consequences. It'd just been fun to tease him… Well, it wasn't any more.

He had scrambled halfway across the bed within a second of the exi's advance, and now his chest was rapidly rising and falling with his heartbeat, usually slow and sluggish, now like a rabbit's. What would John say if he had just seen that? What would anyone say? George's mind was tearing at the seams. Was he… _insulted_ that Klaus had felt so safe in his presence that he thought he could do that? He was a rocker, after all. He was a working-class boy from the north of England, never mind a vampire! There was no way he could lie there and get kissed on by another man. His panic quickly hardened to anger, and he slipped out of the bed and stared with dark blinking eyes at Klaus.

'What do ye- what- what are ye doing?! What was that? Didn't you learn anything from those two times I nearly killed you? I nearly fucking killed you, Klaus; ye know that? Do you? Why am I even still 'ere? I think yer stupid, the pair of ye! That's what _I_ think… Or are you just still pretendin' I'm human?' He caught his voice just on the edge of cracking at these last few words. Because really, he sympathised with Klaus if that was the case, and he couldn't blame him for wishing George was human. Hell if he didn't wish that himself every day. But even now he could feel hunger ripping at his insides. His stomach was empty and there was no life in him. He didn't know what was keeping him on his feet but it was nothing human…

He went to the desk he had been sitting at last night - day - and picked up the drawings he had pored over so lovingly, so careful not to smudge the charcoal or fold the edges of the portraits of himself. Now he grasped three or four in his hand without a second thought, shaking them at Klaus as if they were disgusting. 'You think this is me? This isn't me! This is… it's a fairytale. It's some character or som'thin. I can't be this! Don't you understand that? Can't ye get it through your thick 'ead?' The drawings crumpled as his grip tightened with strength he still wasn't aware of, and in one jerk he had ripped them into halves and cast them into the air in his frustration. 'I could kill you again, Klaus! I could kill you!' he spat, meaning it as a warning, to protect Klaus, to tell him to be careful; not any threat. But that certainly wasn't how it sounded. He leapt at the bed again, lunging for Klaus's ankle which stuck out of the blankets, meaning to drag him out of that stupid bloody bed. He wasn't a child. He couldn't hide under the covers from George like this.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

It all happens too quickly.

Scraps of paper flutter lifelessly to the floorboards; so quickly is their meaning forced out of them as they slow to a stop and rot at George's feet. Every careful stroke, every hour Klaus had poured into those drawings—gone, all _gone_. George might as well have just ripped Klaus's heart out from his chest cavity and shredded it into tiny, useless, anguished tendons, writhing and throbbing and withering into little nothings in between his calloused fingers.

Klaus is frozen. He doesn't know what to say or what to do or what to think or anything at all. The assault doesn't even register in his mind and he doesn't do _anything_ as he's shoved off the bed and onto the cold floor with a heavy thump, the force causing the nightstand to topple and the lamp on top to crash to the floor, clamoring with an echo that can probably be heard throughout the entire house, and the vampire continues to cuss and fight and cuff at his body. Still doesn't the graue maus make a sound because all of a sudden his heart is dead, slaughtered in cold blood with the execution of its fruition and the sudden betrayal and everything frigid closing in on him because now he knows the truth: that George doesn't love him back. George will _never_ love him back. George is a vampire, a _predator_ , and he's only playing with him, toying with him, teasing him and leading him on like a naive little prey before ultimately, he'll pounce and slay him once and for all. Maybe even now. Klaus can't bring himself to move an inch—he can't flee. He doesn't even want to flee, because he's just been taught that his art doesn't matter… his feelings don't matter… he doesn't matter. Nothing matters.

Nothing at all.

“ _Do it,_ ” he croaks, eyes wide and blank and unblinking. “Just kill me. Do it, George, fucking— _kill_ me, I'm begging you. _Kill me._ ”

Klaus's mind bubbles over after that. His suddenly clouded and glazed eyes see nothing; nothing registers in his ears or in his brain or his heart or his nerves or anywhere. He may as well just be dead already. He wishes he was. He'd rather be dead than continue living with this aching bleating heart, knowing he'll never truly ever be able to fall in love ever again. Never ever ever. He lays there on the ground, useless and broken just like the shreds of once-lively paper that dapple the floorboards around him.

In his primitive state of daze and bewilderment, Klaus wishes for those better times. How they had cuddled in that pillow fort together and hugged and how George had carried him inside to a safe place when he collapsed outside the Kaiserkeller, and how George had so heroically defended him from his menacing art teacher. It really did seem like the teddy boy cared about him then. Maybe Klaus had been the fool all this time to believe it. He had let himself become a slave to his desperate need for love and pity and it blinded him. And he had been even more stupid to just try to kiss George, thinking no harm would come out of it. That one kiss ruined _everything_. If he had known what would've happened, he knows he would have just preferred to live in a state of ignorant bliss. Now, finally, he's forced to learn the hard way.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George ceased all movements, and he found himself staring, in confusion, then shock, at Klaus as he heard those words tremble from his lips. Suddenly the weight of what he'd said in his anger crashed down on him. He was looking at someone who had been cut deep, who was hurt beyond what take-backs and apologies could undo now. George couldn't regret what he had said; it had been the truth; but the way he had said it had been cruel for outside St. Pauli. Klaus wasn't so tough and thick-skinned as the people there. George still didn't quite know how much damage he had really done.

Now hunger was taking over his thoughts. He felt empty, and tired, and he wanted to put all of this off and go and hunt before ehe faced up to it all. Just so that he would be thinking clearly. Fighting fit, Paul's father would say. Not that George would ever dare to go back to Paul's house these days. He was sure he was white as a ghost. This crumpled, whispering figure in front of him was something he had never seen before. Like a crying child he didn't know what to do with, but amplified a hundred times. And distorted. Because this was a more adult despair, and a more adult hopelessness. And George had caused it. Couldn't help but cause it - everywhere he went, it seemed. But what could he do now? He couldn't take back his words.

He reached out a hand slowly, arm bridging the chasm of stagnant air between them, to try and touch Klaus's hand. But he stopped a few inches away, as a flinch went through the boy and George retreated immediately. Not wanting Klaus to think he was going to attack, even though a part of him was still frustrated and conflicted. 'Klaus?' he said, his eyes narrowed in concern. 'I- I'm not gonna kill you. I won' ever. Don't ask me to do that.' Did he really think George would? He didn't like to hear such helpless words from his friend. He hated to see him hurt. Hated that neither of them could understand each other like they might have wanted to.

Frustrated again, but now mostly with himself, he shook his head and closed his eyes, raising up from where he had been kneeling on the floor on level with Klaus, and kicking the drawings aside. Then, the anger building up inside his empty chest, he kicked the chest of drawers behind him, hard, so that he could feel the bones bruising in his toes in the moment of impact. The thing jolted and a snuff box and some more papers fell to the floor. 'Fuck,' George muttered. Then again, louder, 'Fuck this.'

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

Something crashing, and something bruising—splintering, then fluttering atop the surface of the floor. Klaus isn't sure if any of this is real. It's so hard to trust himself at all when all of this seems so surreal, when he can't trust himself to be able to distinguish between what's there and what really isn't. George seems frustrated—he can only guess.

“No, I—I get it.” The graue maus mutters softly, turning his head slightly, feeling the cold wooden floorboards press against his cheek. “You… I—I'm not… good. I'm not understand it… good. You are different, and—a-and I… well. I don't know.” Their worlds don't mix, no matter how much he wishes for it. Klaus is soft and naive and not built for the harsh, unforgiving scape of places like the Reeperbahn, where people like George crawl. George is hard-headed and sly and nowhere near as vulnerable as Klaus. Klaus feels like a deadweight to him. The lifestyle of people who live like the vampire does is swift, living in the fast lane, and Klaus feels only like a burden.

He opens his mouth to say something else, something that could somehow fix this whole mess—but anything that spills out of his lips is very suddenly overthrown by the sound of the door being thrown open and a flurry of Astrid sprinting into the room, jumping over the bed and slamming George into the ground. That's what snaps Klaus back to his senses. He sits up quickly and yelps as if he's the one being attacked—quickly noticing the shiny sliver of a crucifix glinting malevolently from around the exi girl's neck, hanging down low from a small chain and hovering threateningly above the vampire's chest.

“No—wait—!” Klaus cries out, scrambling onto his feet and taking a step forward before being suddenly reined back by another person—he turns around and sees Jürgen, grabbing his shoulder tightly with one hand and clutching a satchel in the other. He shakes his head sternly. The younger exi's eyes then return to Astrid and George tussling on the floor, and then the torn-up remains of Klaus's artwork scattered about around them. Astrid keeps George pinned down against the floor, and her eyes blaze coldly as the teddy struggles beneath, spitting and swearing at her.

“I knew it,” She mutters gravely, just barely glancing around at the ruined room and the artwork and furniture. “I knew it you're just wanting to hurt Klaus.”

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

Anything George might have thought to reply to Klaus was knocked out of his mind as he found his back colliding with the hard floorboards and all the breath in his lungs escaping suddenly. He caught sight of the flashing metal gleam of the crucifix just before he landed, and, trying to turn away from it, his head hit the ground hard upside the jaw and his ear caught on a stray nail, tearing a messy cut which didn't bleed for several long seconds, until a dribble of thin red sluggishly appeared. He hissed, sucking in air through his teeth and drawing his head back as far as he possibly could form the offending cross. His chest, whilst juddering with quick, frantic breaths, he sucked in, trying to stay still and avoid the burning touch of that thing. But as it hung down so close, he could already feel it weakening him even more than the hunger already had.

Motivation was escaping him in waves; he felt heavy and doped, as if he just wanted to sleep. But luckily the situation was so tense at that moment that he was still reeling with anger and shock; he wasn't going to give in to the effects, and let this enraged woman assume what she liked about what she had seen. He fought her tooth and claw, ready and willing to give as good as he got, but he simply lacked the strength. He bruised her legs and kicked at her fragile frame, all the joints where he knew it would hurt most. But she didn't let up. Eventually he spit in her face. 'You stupid cow! If I wanted to kill 'im he'd have been rottin' in a gutter the first night I ever saw 'im. I'm not gonna kill 'im! He'll tell yer! I'd never kill 'im, cause he's never hurt me, see! Like tied me up, or tried to get me killed - or pinned me down an' put weapons in me face! That's why I won' kill him. '

He looked at her, cold and calculating, anchoring her in a sudden stop to the fighting as his eyes fixed onto hers; it was a look of cynicism, of blatant distrust, an expression of barely restrained hatred that was aimed at her dead centre like the sights of a gun. A part of him still burned with some kind of possessiveness which was burrowed deeply in him like a thorn, further than the crucifix's dulling powers could reach.

No, he didn't let Klaus kiss him. But that didn't mean he didn't want Klaus around. Klaus wanted him ; that was perfectly clear. And not this blonde faux-intellectual who thought she was so in charge. They were doing fine without her, and they would have been doing fine from the very start if she didn't still think she had a stake to claim in all of this. Meddling in George's business. With George's life. And making him out like a monster to Klaus. The thought didn't enter into his equations that all the times he had attacked Klaus, she hadn't even been there. He was baring his teeth, half unconsciously, no part of him touching her except for where she was grabbing onto him herself. But despite all his rage.. he couldn't keep it up. His eyelids were shiny, the nerves in his fingers and his neck twitching. He let his head roll to the side and gave Klaus a solemn look. He knew the exi wasn't going to help him. But he wanted to make sure Klaus knew that that was a conscious choice. That whatever happened now, he could prevent it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my happy ending flickers far out of reach. i'll never get what i want, and that's just what i deserve.


	10. 91-100

_ exiswannabe _

Although she tries her best to suppress it, Astrid can't help but wince slightly when she sees blood trickle from the scratch torn down the vampire's ear. The small cut slowly wells up and the blood glimmers softly, whispering— _you did this. You're no better than any vampire._ But she can't think about that now. George has destroyed Klaus's drawings. And not just any drawings, but the drawings he had painstakingly conjured just for _him_. The ones that are supposed to be special, supposed to mean something, all so suddenly and carelessly ripped to shreds.

As far as Astrid knows, Klaus doesn't have much security in his life. He's too shy, too quiet, and he keeps to himself. He doesn't have much to hold onto, and it's hard for him to put himself out there on his own, so he's often just lonely and sad. His drawings are one of the very sparse and obscure things he buries himself into to cope. Every little stroke conveys so much without a single word. He loves his drawings—and, for some reason, he loves this… _vampire_. But it doesn't matter. George has no right to destroy Klaus's artwork. Anyone who tries is a fool. Anyone who succeeds will fucking pay for it. She will see to that herself.

Astrid glares intently at the shuddering, sputtering creature pinned underneath her. George seems weaker than any he had been during any of their previous encounters—fair enough. She slowly turns her gaze to the doorway, where Jürgen and Klaus are staring with wide, uncertain eyes. They're scared, unsure, afraid for what will happen next. Astrid just smiles at them sadly, somehow trying to reassure them before pulling the vampire up, scrambling to her feet and dragging him forwards with her, to a much expected protest.

“You are bad, I punish. No kill. No more punish if good,” Astrid mutters and the exi boys slowly slink out of her way and follow from a distance as she fights to drag George down the stairs, then towards the cellar door. His senses suddenly seem to heighten and he starts to struggle more, cussing more with words she can't quite understand. He stares at Klaus, who is shuffling uncomfortably at the other end of the hall, and George's gaze is almost pleading as Astrid hauls him down the steps. But Klaus just averts his gaze, looking all lost—almost betrayed, in a way.

She's blocked out most of the thoughts pressing in on her mind by the time she's tying the teddy boy to the pipe again. She had to keep reminding herself that this isn't a human she's dealing with—it's a blood-hungry vampire with only a limited sense of empathy. After all, he had just destroyed the cherished artwork of someone who had trusted in him and confided in him in spite of his hostility and cold-bloodedness. All her limbs hurt where he had bruised her but she shoves off the feeling and takes a step back once the deed is done.

“I bring you back up at evening. You must say sorry to Klaus—really. You don't know how much you are hurt—him. Th-think about what you done!” She shakes her head sternly before quickly retreating from the room, shutting the door behind her and leaving him alone in the darkness.

—

It's not Astrid, but Jürgen who returns only an hour or two later—essentially still midday—to attend to the guitarist. He's still clutching his satchel, looking nervous but still upholding a straight posture. His gait is sturdy, very quiet, and he approaches the brooding creature before leaning down for a moment and he wastes no time in digging into the satchel and presenting him with several blood bags. “I take from _Krankenhous_. You drink.” The exi almost seems smug or proud about it. God knows how he managed to pull it off. He lifts one of the bags up to the vampire's mouth, trying to coax him to bite.

“Klaus is… not happy,” Jürgen continues quietly. “Astrid was sweeping the drawings off a—the floor. He is staying in bed. Very quiet—very sad. You are—you must he-help him. Please.”

* * *

 

_ fangsharrison _

George was left with few options by the time he had been escorted to the bottom of the basement steps. Carry on fighting and deplete his energy completely, as well as scaring Klaus and enraging this blonde further; or cease and desist. Let her feel like she was in control, even if it was possible it would look like George was admitting that he deserved what he got. In the end he chose the latter. If only because he couldn't be bothered to fight anymore. It was three against one with the crucifix. (Without there would be no contest at all.) He wouldn't get out of the house anyway.

Giving in to defeat, he looked down at his lap and quietly sighed. The cold metal pole against his spine sending icy shivers through him with every movement, until he learned to remain still. _What have you done?_ he thought despondently. _What's the matter with you?_ He wondered if when it came to Klaus and Astrid, he was even capable of doing anything right. Astrid- that was her name. He'd heard Klaus say it. It was pretty, but with a harsh sound to it. Similar to her personality. As she tightened the rope against his skin once again, deja vu washed over him; bringing with it a surge of panic which bubbled beneath the surface of George's current subdued facade. He would deal with it in a different manner than he had done the last time, though. He looked at Astrid now with dead eyes. He looked at her face all the while as she adjusted the rope, tied knots, talked to him in that broken english. He didn't say a word until the end. She didn't understand him. That he didn't want bathing, or mothering, or to be held to impossible standards. So what was the point in trying? 'I'll think about what you've done too,' he murmured in a warning tone, only half expecting her to hear the comment.

Time passed. A lot of it, it felt like after a while. George could still feel the effects of the crucifix like thick wool settled around his chest, making his eyelids heavy and shiny pink, his skinny limbs feel like lead. Eventually the second exi appeared, and George was roused from his daze by the creak of the door. Soon the bloke was standing over him; then he knelt down and George sighed and closed his eyes, unwilling to even engage. As soon as they let him up, he had decided, he was going to go straight back to the Reeperbahn to his real friends and not come back here. He'd send a message to Klaus to meet him there if he still wanted to see him. But then, a strong smell reached George's senses, and something plasticky was brushing against his mouth. He frowned, turning his head to avoid the thing, before opening his eyes to see the bag of sloshing red. How had the exi got so many of these? Should he trust him? They could be poisoned, or else contain some chemical anyway that would make vampires sick. George had never even considered it. He looked up at the man furtively from under dark lashes, still cautious of the stuff. But the bag followed his mouth, the man seeming determined that George drink, but he refrained, willing away his quite obvious hunger.

His expression didn't change, and he had nothing to say in return as the man talked. Trying to be a diplomat and reason with him - making the same mistake as Astrid in assuming that he cared about upsetting anyone in this house. But then suddenly, as Jurgen drew the bag back with a casual movement of his hand, the comforting smell left George's nostrils and he found himself desperate for blood again. He jolted forwards, trying to reach the food, but held back by the ropes keeping him in place. His toes curled in frustration and his outstretched legs dragged against the floor as he urged himself forwards - until the exi relented and the bag was moved close to him again, and he could relax. He pierced the plastic with some difficulty, hating the indignity and strangeness of not drinking from a live victim he had caught himself, and slowly started to drain the liquid inside. Tin drips splattered on the floor and on his knees, and dribbles of red ran down the plastic into the man's palm.

George stopped once the first bag was flattened, and wiped his mouth on his bare shoulder. Perhaps from embarrassment, he couldn't quite bring himself to meet the exi's eye. He muttered something that might have been 'thank you,' though more to the floor than to the man himself.

* * *

 

_ exiswannabe _

Jürgen pauses, slowly lowering the emptied blood sac and setting it on the ground aside from the still-untouched ones. He hums softly, almost wistfully, and folds his arms. With a quick flicker, he glances briefly at the one spot near the other wall of the room, where Jürgen himself had encountered the vampire for the first time three weeks ago drinking Klaus dry and hissing at Astrid fiercely. There had been much spilled blood then. It seems most of it is gone now—Astrid must've mopped it up at some point. He's glad for that. He doesn't know how George would have reacted if the scent of it was still prevalent.

“Why'n you did it?” He asks softly. “Why—hurt Klaus's drawings?” There has to be more to all of this. He can't just have done it out of spite for Klaus or because he felt like being a big mean jerk. Maybe it's the hunger or maybe he had felt threatened somehow. Maybe Klaus had done something to upset him—not deliberately, but his emotional vulnerability wouldn't be the best thing for a vampire in a hungered state. “You don't— have to say, if not want…. to.” He shrugs and looks down. Of course, he doesn't want to corner this teddy boy any more than he's already been. That's not his part to deal with. It's not Astrid's either, now that he's thinking about it. He supposes that's one of her good traits that could also be bad—that is, imposing on others. It's motherlike, both in a caring way and in a pushy-fussy way. Everything seems to gravitate around _her_. Klaus does, for one. But George doesn't. And Klaus is trying to hold onto both of them like it isn't going to tear him apart.

“I'm will let you go again, soon, if you're want. But you're must say sorry to'n Klaus first, okay? So… so he is not stay sad.” Jürgen would never let the vampire take off in a cloud of dust if he wasn't going to apologize first. That's one thing he's sure of in himself. No matter what had gone down in that room, the poor souris would likely be scarred by the outcome—hell, maybe even traumatized if he never gets closure. He might be scared to ever pick up a pencil or a charcoal stick after this because of what had happened. Jürgen can't help him with that and neither can Astrid or Reinhardt or that what's-his-face art teacher that Klaus lives with that always seems very beady-eyed and scowly. It has to be George.

Slowly, Jürgen reaches for another blood bag and brings it to George's mouth. “Want another?” He manages to smile somehow. It's all really silly, after all. Vampires don't ask to be monsters. Maybe humans are the monsters for witchhunting vampires so aggressively. Even the usually pacifist Astrid Kirchherr had been paranoid enough twice now to keep him tied up in the basement—this time totally shirtless against a freezing pipe in the middle of a ruthless German winter. It doesn't sound all that humane. She wouldn't do that to a human. Maybe Klaus has the right idea somehow, being quick to show his affection towards someone who had likely received nothing but cold blood and aggression for years. Of course, he isn't going about it in all the right ways, but it's a start, isn't it?

* * *

 

_ fangsharrison _

George's chest was starting to rise and fall at a normal pace again. He could feel his heartbeat, no longer so weak that it was undetectable; but it was just a little shock. He knew he had a lot more nourishment to catch up on, and now the exi was giving it so freely, he had neither the will power or motivation to refuse. He let the two small, sharp pinpricks pierce the thin layer of plastic and instantly felt the thick, rich blood inside fill his mouth. It was cold against his incisors, though, like ice cream when you have a toothache. He wasn't used to cold food.

The blood rushed to the boy's system and he felt heavy, the way a normal person feels, but which he only ever did after a feed. He couldn't get up now if the man untied him. Feelings of shame and liberation hung over him. Liberation in finding himself alone, with no one to burden him down with affection, but also shame that he had deserted Klaus after all the kindness and understanding he had shown him. A hundred thought were pacing about his head. But he voiced none of them. He had relaxed back against the pole he was fixed to, no longer feeling the slight burn of the ropes which dug into his skin, making little red marks around his ribs. He even looked around the room with mild disinterest as the exi talked, and George drank, giving few indications that he was listening - though he was.

Before he had stopped talking George emptied the second plastic bag, and another one replaced it, which he slowly but surely worked his way through. Soon enough the man had nothing left to say, and there was silence during the third and fourth units of blood, drawing out for what seemed like a long time. Only when George had finished all the supplies Jurgen had brought did he close his eyes for a while, resting his head back against the cold metal, and then finally reply to the man's questions.

His eyes opened almost sinisterly, like those of a snake about to attack; and he held Jurgen's gaze studiously for a moment. Attempting to gauge what emotions the other might be feeling. What he wanted to George to say. But that part was obvious. George wished he could say it, too. He wished a lot of things had turned out a different way than they had with Klaus. But it was inevitable. They were never going to just coexist without anything going wrong. People like George weren't supposed to live around normal people. There were reasons for that - as Klaus, and Astrid, and Jurgen too, had seen. 'I don't know,' he said in a small voice. Because he really didn't know, why he had torn up the drawings. Not exactly. 'I was just angry. With myself… for not being able to be the guy in the drawings. They looked like they were laughing at me.' He glanced to the side, not meeting Jurgen's eyes. But even as he thought about it now, the anger he had felt back there in the bedroom crept into him again. His expression hardened and he swallowed, and clenched his jaw. 'I'm not gonna apologise to 'im. Then he'll just keep on not gettin' it. And I'll end up killing someone next.' - he looked up at the exi, who seemed to understand at least more than the other two. 'Won't I?'

* * *

 

_ exiswannabe _

Jürgen listens to George. He listens as much as his knowledge of English allows him to. The vampire says he doesn't know—but maybe that's okay. Maybe it does mean he had just been hungry. Jürgen knows plenty a person who'd become cranky without a full stomach. But that doesn't mean he's going to let George off the hook scot-free. Hell, it's just an apology. Something to help Klaus sleep a little easier tonight. The exi stares down at the array of completely emptied blood packets—nine in total, as that was all he had managed to fit inside the satchel. The vampire had burned through all that in one sitting. He hadn't thought that George would need any more than two or maybe three at a time if he hadn't just seen otherwise for himself. Hopefully it's enough for now—Jürgen swallows uncomfortably.

Instead of responding right away, the photographer simply gets to his feet, brushing off his trouser legs and running a hand through his mopped hair. “Wait here,” he orders softly, before disappearing up the cellar stairs.

—

It takes a lot of will to drag Klaus out of the bed. Jürgen almost even considers carrying him, but it seems like the two things other than body mass that can make someone heavier are death and grief. And there seems to be plenty of grief in Klaus now. The maus follows behind him dejectedly, arms wrapped around his body, and Jürgen can't tell for certain but he thinks he's shivering. He manages to coax Klaus down into the basement, down the creaking steps. His eyes seem to widen at the sight of George and the blood sacs strewn about around him, but otherwise remain blurry and averted. Jürgen reaches for the switch to the bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling's off-center before heading out, shutting the door behind him almost silently.

Klaus feels the strange illumination disturbing the shadow on his face and George's face in an alien manner. He slowly gets down to his knees in front of the vampire, feeling his arms tremble, his legs tremble, his lip tremble—everything else is so still around him but he can't make it stop. George's eyes are fixated on him, so intent underneath heavy brows, almost like a glare, only amplified by the blood smeared around his lips. Klaus winces beneath those blazing eyes. He wants to run—he doesn't want to face this anymore. He can no longer trust himself to take it because he already knows the truth. _No more, no more please—I can't take it anymore._ His chest is twisting and aching and in so much pain and he thinks he might as well just burst.

“I… I'm sorry,” he chokes out before George gets the chance to say anything. “I… d'not—m-mean to—make… y-you angry to me, I… did… didn't kn-ow. Didn't know y-ouu hate my drawings.” No tears come up now. He feels like he's spent all the tears he can already. Just dry crying, small bubbly noises in his throat, and hands pressed hard into his hair. He wants to disappear. Was it Jürgen that had given George these blood packets? No fair. He wishes George had just opted to drink Klaus himself instead. Maybe then he'd be useful one more time. “I—wanted too mu-uch. Not fair. No more—no more you… have—to put-up with me. Just go.”

Violently shaking fingers reach forward. He tries too hard not to touch George. Every time their skins graze, he flinches back and bites his tongue. He doesn't want to provoke George again. He doesn't want to have to deal with the feeling of it being rubbed in his face all over again. He's just trying to feel for the end of the rope—some sort of knot. It's a weak one, and even in his distraught state, the exi manages to loosen it quickly. The ropes fall uselessly around George's body. Klaus scampers back a few inches quickly, head bowed—waiting for him to just get out already. Waiting for him to just flee, desert, vanish from this place forever.

* * *

 

_ fangsharrison _

George was relieved when the rope came off. He twitched whenever Klaus's fingers came in contact with his skin. They were hot from being under blankets, and George was cold from the frigid basement air. But, although he hadn't expected it to be pleasant by any means, the painful sting which came with his liberty cut his deeper than he'd expected. The look on Klaus's face was horribly memorable, and guilt bit at George with every fractured word the boy said. He was the most surprised when Klaus admitted he thought George hated his drawings. Of course he didn't; it was the opposite. Now more than ever he wished he'd never touched the stupid things. That they had been locked away in some drawer where he couldn't have reached them.

He glanced warily at Klaus. What did this mean - Was it just fear? Or did Klaus hate the sight of him now? Couldn't stand to look at him, or to even have him in his house. Both George could understand, but still he hoped it was the former. He didn't want to walk off into the world, alone forever; to walk the Lancashire moors or the streets of Hamburg or Liverpool, feared by everyone, lonely. He didn't want to go and make himself lost forever. And now that the vision was laid out before him and seemed as imminent as the sunrise, he realised that learning some restraint and behaving politely was a small price to pay to avoid it.

And soon George was saying those words he promised himself would never come out: 'Sorry. I'm… I'm sorry for destroying your work.' He of course couldn't look at Klaus as he said it; but Jurgen hadn't specified that. He only wanted an apology, and George had given it. But soon he was carried away. There were things he wanted to say to Klaus. 'It's not that I hate them. It's that I hate me. Well, sometimes. I don't think you'll understand but I promise, I don't not like your art. It's great. Like I told you. I don' know why I did that up there, y'know. I don't remember. But I didn't mean it, that's the important thing. An' it doesn't mean, like… doesn't mean that I don't like you. Cause I do.' He was struggling to get across his meaning - even in English. It was hopeless, he was pretty sure, to hope to get even the simplest parts across to a German speaker. It angered him, he felt that bubbling in his chest, but he willed it back down forcefully. Instead running his hands through his hair and sighing quietly. This was all wrong. Of course he wasn't going to leave now.

He looked back up at Klaus, shaking his head. 'Don't do all this,' he gestured to the ropes by kicking a loose coil with his foot. 'It's silly. You'll jus' get in trouble with your friend. She'll never let ye out the house again if she thinks I'm out there pissed off with ye. Tie me back up. It's fine, really. I won't say you came down.' He started to gather up the rope, still warm from being pressed against his skin, loathing even the feel of it and secretly dreading having it dig into him like that again for hours to come. Though, it would dawn in a few hours. It might not be that bad. And at least Klaus was off the hook. He glanced across at the shivering form on the ground again, and his eyes seemed to soften, the hopelessness of the situation reflecting in them sadly even as he knew, and was glad, he was doing the right thing. 'I really do like you, y'know.'

* * *

 

_ exiswannabe _

It would be pointless if he tries to excuse everything he hears. George couldn't possibly be apologizing to _him_ , could he? Not when Klaus had been the careless one. Not when it had been Klaus who overstepped his boundaries and who had put George on a pedestal. Klaus bites his lip and quickly shuts his eyes. _No, no no no no no_. Why isn't he just leaving already? Why can't he just get it over with?

But George doesn't go. He doesn't abandon Klaus. No, he's—asking him to tie him back up again? The maus shakes his head, rubbing his eyes. It can't be. He wouldn't—Klaus wouldn't do that. It would be too much. He'd never have the willpower and he's already trying too hard to clear his conscience. If Astrid is upset with him, that will be his problem to deal with, and his alone. George has been too caught up in this mess already and it would be unfair to keep him here any longer. Klaus shakes his head and wants to smile gently, but finds himself unable to do so.

At the very least, George has just been fed. Klaus will have to thank Jürgen later for that. For a shy thing like Klaus himself, the photographer seems to be rather good at going through with mild crimes so long as he isn't caught. Klaus would never have the nerve to pull off feats like smuggling blood bags out of a hospital right underneath the doctors' noses. In any case, it probably means George won't be so quick to turn to hostility—right? The exi shudders. Then again, it won't exactly mean that he'll forgive Klaus so easily either.

“No… no no. I don't wanna. Don't wanna—hurt—you—any-m-more.” Klaus pauses for one more moment before feeling for the floor and staggering up to his feet, legs weak and shaking slightly. He wraps his arms around himself tightly, bare feet grazing painfully against the frigid ground. George does the same with less than half the difficulty. The exi boy wishes he could be this rigid, this calculating and cold and strong. Maybe then he wouldn't have to cling onto others so much. “Come on. You can go too.”

He slowly makes his way up the stairs, being so careful not to fall, and holding onto the railings with both arms the entire way up. And he's trying to make his bad feelings stay down there in the basement behind him, but he knows he can't keep denying it: he doesn't want George to go. He knows it's selfish and it's stupid but he just wishes he could find a way to make it all work. He knows he'll be drawing the vampire even more no matter what and he wishes those drawings could be real—that prince, that rugged guitarist staring out back at him from beneath the heaps of charcoal dust is real, if only to him. But George, he knows now, thinks differently. Differently enough to despise those drawings to the point he had will to destroy them. Klaus feels ill as he pushes the door open—he can't tell if it's dawn or dusk anymore. When was the last time he had eaten properly?

 

* * *

 

_ fangsharrison _

It almost felt shameful, walking back up those stairs without having done his time, or so to speak. Perhaps Astrid's methods were right, and he should have had the time to think. And the punishment of the cold and the damp as well. He had been starting to get comfortable down there, out of necessity; he was glad he didn't have to, in the end - and determined to stay above ground from now on. Even if it meant surrendering a tiny bit of his tough ted-style image. After all, it wasn't like Klaus was John, or Stu, or was going to go running to them saying how soft he was either. It just felt unnatural; letting his guard down. Especially in an oddly risky environment like this Astrid girl's home.

He supposed all he could do was be polite and hope that they treated him with dignity now that he had calmed down. The blood had helped so more than he'd thought possible. He was almost fine; contended. Or maybe it was just the warmth of the upstairs. He followed Klaus into an old fashioned but neat and homely kitchen with a wooden table in the centre, where someone had left bits of spare paper containing sketches of the salt and pepper. it looked vaguely like Klaus's work. George, still bereft of a shirt- or any clothes other than the now blood flecked trousers Klaus had given him, felt strangely eager to hold a hot cup of tea in his hands; even if he wasn't necessarily going to drink it. He wondered if Germans liked tea as much as English people. He hadn't really experienced much of the usual culture. Anyone who came to the Beatles' dingy club in the Reeperbahn wasn't after tea.

He glanced back at Klaus, who had gingerly taken a seat at the table. His movements were still cautious and scared. Rabbit-like. Like how prey do act, George thought uncomfortably. He ran his thin fingers around the rims of the porcelain cups sitting on the sideboard. 'Do ye… d'you want a cup of tea Klaus?' he asked. But Klaus seemed lost in his own thoughts, his gaze cast down at the corner of one of the bits of paper, it looked like. So George decided to take the initiative and make some anyway. He set out three cups in case someone else came down and wanted one; otherwise he could just pour it into the sink afterwards. He was determined to do something for Klaus, be it tea or any other gesture - just to show him he cared. Actions speak louder… that was something people said, wasn't it? Was something his Louise said, maybe…

His thoughts drifted as he boiled the kettle and felt the steam against his bare skin. It was warm. Very warm. George was once again overjoyed not to be in the bloody basement. It was nice here without Astrid around manhandling him in some way or another. When he went to the fridge for some milk he caught sight of some eggs and butter, and then he glanced back furtively over his shoulder to look at Klaus. He was looking skinnier than ever, if that was even possible. George couldn't remember the last time he'd seen him eat _anything_ , and he knew if he was still human he'd never have stood to go without for that long. He placed Klaus's cup of tea almost nervously on the table in front of him, and then decided that as long as he made enough for everyone Astrid couldn't get angry for using her food. Just the sight of it was enough to tempt George. They never had anything good to eat at the Bambi Kino. Not exactly knowing what he was doing, but figuring that it would still taste nice as long as he put enough butter in, he cut up some pieces of bread and put them in a frying pan, along with some funny german sausages and then the eggs, scrambling them in one corner before deciding to add some mushrooms from a glass jar as well. The pan was very full by the time George found a plate and piled a third of the contents onto it for Klaus. He wondered if Klaus even liked any of this stuff.

George allowed himself a proud smile just before he turned to put the plate down right in front of Klaus. He hoped the exi hadn't spotted it. 'I can't eat this stuff,' he explained. 'Sort of got carried away...'

* * *

 

_ exiswannabe _

The entire time, Klaus is really not sure why George hasn't made any attempts to leave the house yet. He's been here for a few days already. Wouldn't his bandmates be concerned about his whereabouts by now? Surely he must be anxious to return to them too. He's always been antsy about staying here but all of a sudden he's being all leisurely and—making tea. Klaus stares down at the cup in front of him and it seems to take a lot of energy but he manages to pick it up with both trembling hands, the hot ceramics ebbing heat against his fingers as he brings it to his lips and sips tentatively. Immediately, his nerve-wracked mind seems to ease slightly and he can think a little clearer now.

Jürgen is nowhere to be found. The artist suspects that he may have left already. That's understandable—but his attention is quickly drawn away with George slides a plate of food towards him. Klaus looks up and he thinks he can just see the last traces of a smile on the guitarist, who quickly looks away and mumbles something. Klaus blinks once, then twice, lips hanging open only slightly as he fails to voice his surprise. Unable to say much, he simply nods his head shyly and reaches for a fork in the drawer behind him.

He doesn't truly realize just how hungry he is until he starts eating. Only then does the hollowness in his stomach become apparent—he really hasn't had a proper meal in _days_. It's been so hectic lately that it just hasn't been on his mind all that much. Klaus continues on eating in small movements, almost like nibbling in a fashion. This weird concoction isn't all that great, but it's not bad either, and the exi isn't in a spot to complain anyway. The vampire is idle now, having already had his… fill. Klaus wishes he could thank him properly. The drawings had been a liability, and so had been the cuddles, and—the _kiss_. Klaus almost stops eating for a moment. Is… George still upset by that? He hasn't mentioned it at all. Seemingly just pretending like it never happened. Perhaps that's for the best, but Klaus… Klaus can't help but feel his heart ache, knowing how George had reacted then. The hours he had spent lying in bed afterwards had been purely agonizing. He had been in so much pain and he felt so awful and betrayed and ill and now they're going to just sit here and eat breakfast and act like it never happened. He swallows uncomfortably. It almost frustrates him to think about it.

He's still only but halfway through the meal when new hints of sunlight press themselves against the closed curtains. And as if almost on cue, a pair of footsteps make their way down the staircase down the hall and a few moments later Astrid emerges into the kitchen.

She seems surprised at George's presence, but mostly just—slightly disdained. He does look indecent after all, even though Klaus knows he isn't behaving like it so much. Her gaze then briefly attends to the kettle on the stove, the pan of food right next to it, and Klaus eating a portion of said food at the table, seeming… significantly more content than he had been the previous night. But all in all, it's a calm scene—almost, dare she say, _domestic_. No broken things or spilled things or Klaus crying. Just two “normal” boys having breakfast and tea. She supposes that much in itself is something of merit. Jürgen is gone too—it's safe to guess that his blood packets came in handy. The vampire seems satisfied for now, albeit wary of her new presence in the room. Understandable.

Astrid slowly removes the small stack of clothes from her arms and sets them on the table. These are George's threads, complete with leather jacket and all. She had managed to clean them last night. She even ironed them out and folded them up neatly. She slowly slides the stack over towards the vampire, not making eye contact for the most part. “Is clean,” she murmurs reluctantly. “You—are being good now. Right—?”

* * *

 

_ fangsharrison _

For the first few moments Astrid stood in the doorway George was suspended, frozen to the spot in a mild form of fear. And it was visible. He never thought you could be so still, like a drawing, before he'd become a vampire. He supposed it was a hunting technique. Making no noise, not even stirring the wind, before you appear out of a shadow and the victim's life reaches a sudden end. But George wasn't looking at Astrid as prey. He knew she had the power to expose him to the whole German population of Hamburg, not to mention St. Pauli where he earned a living. And that if her mood wasn't right, she'd have no qualms taking him to the police station - probably to a requiem mass of Klaus sobbing his stupid lungs out.

However when Astrid cautiously spoke, George regained some kind of nervous domesticity. He gave an uncertain, slow nod and reached behind him to find the extra cup of tea he'd made, his eyes never leaving the blonde exi-girl's, reluctant to turn his back on her now or ever. He placed the tea over on her side of the table, and, as if in exchange, took his pile of clothes as well. He leafed through them until he got to his black t shirt, and awkwardly got it on himself, trying to keep away from the stove as he pulled the fabric over his shoulders. He didn't want to burn himself. It felt very strange… almost stiff, and it smelled funny too. Like flowers or soap or… well, it didn't smell like sweat, he supposed. Never mind. It would return to its usual smell by the end of a week or so.

Thinking of the Kaiserkellar now, he wondered what John, Paul, Stu and Pete would be thinking of his short absence. John had probably been playing lead guitar; but George sure didn't want him to get used to it. He had to go back. The only problem was the bloody burning sun right outside. He found himself frowning in frustration, and leaned back against the counter, almost sulking as he realised he was now trapped here, all day. With these two. He would have liked to take Klaus to meet the others, show them some of his art. Stu would love it, he was fairly certain. He didn't have many poncy arty friends in the city. 'I don' reckon…' he started, casting a side-glance at Astrid in case she thought he was speaking out of turn. 'Er, well - that there's any way out of here that doesn't involve sunlight?'

 


	11. 101-110

_ exiswannabe _

Astrid cocks an eyebrow at the cup of tea, and hesitantly takes it in her hands but doesn't drink. She only watches carefully as George puts on his shirt—and only stares blankly when he asks the question, which she isn't really sure about how to answer. Klaus stops eating for a moment and looks up from his plate curiously, swallowing before rubbing at his mouth and speaking up with an innocent smile.

“Flettermaus,” he says and makes a strange hand motion. Astrid looks back at George to see his reaction. The teddy boy doesn't say anything but he does seem a little disturbed at the suggestion. She ponders this. Is it true that George, as a vampire, can turn into a bat? She's a little skeptical about it. After all, surely he would have done so already during at least one of the several times she's managed to capture him. Or maybe he's not good at it yet. He's a young vampire—but still, looks can be deceiving.

“Wait—here,” she mutters before disappearing back upstairs. The flight to the attic seems to take forever but she manages to salvage an empty shoebox from a heap of junk and she uses an old fireplace rod to poke a few small holes into the bottom before returning downstairs.

It's a little crazy but this is their best bet at getting him out at all in the broad daylight and unforgiving, glistening snow. For some reason, she almost feels… reluctant to let him go. Almost like how a mother feels anxious about sending her child off to school alone for the first time. But she has to leave for work soon and she doesn't want him to be alone in her house with poor little Klaus-maus. If he's going to wreak havoc again, he'd better do it at the Reeperbahn. People there are certainly accustomed to that, but not here. Not in Astrid's good clean household where sneaky little teddy boys aren't allowed to destroy things for a reason.

The exi girl sets the box down on the table and removes the lid. Klaus looks on curiously before looking up at George, smiling nervously. “It work? You—flettermaus-you in, I can… ca-carry to place. Yes?” Astrid frowns a bit at his stuttering and takes a sip at her tea.

* * *

 

_ fangsharrison _

'No, I-' George's voice was nervous and croaky as he replied to Klaus. _I'm not bloody doing that again._ 'I don't think I can- y'know, last time I was desperate. I'm not good at-' he started to sound more frustrated and unpredictable as the reality of it took a firmer and firmer grip. Klaus and Astrid didn't seem to think it was any big deal. He looked between them, trapped. Either he did this thing he hated, where he felt even less human than he usually did and was at the mercy of them in an even more annoying way - for a short time, or he remained stuck in this house all day. God knew what Klaus would want to do, and George had very little desire to find out. At least once it was over he'd be back on home turf, at the Kaiserkellar. It would no longer be two against one like it had been for too long, but rather George and all the rest of his mates versus Klaus, if he tried anything.

George groaned and turned around to lean over the stove, his knuckles whitening against the cloth rail as he fought his instinct to go and bolt right out of the door and into sunlight. Why was everything so damned hard now? It was like having a curfew. He kicked at the oven door once, then let out a quiet breath and turned back to face the Klaus and Astrid. 'Turn around then.' Almost a little disappointed when they did as he'd asked, as now there was nothing left to stall around with, George shook his head, wondering why on earth he was doing this again. But before another thought could enter his mind, George had turned himself into the same tiny, but frightening-looking bat only Klaus had seen him as before. It was supposed to be scary, but if you couldn't fly, George supposed, it sort of lost its shock value. And he wasn't willing to screech and bite anyone's face. He still had some charm left, despite what Astrid seemed to think.

On the floor, George managed to locate a table leg, and started to climb up it, scratching the wood but not particularly caring at the white marks his claws made. As long as he was in the bloody box with the lid shut as soon as possible, that was all he cared about.

* * *

 

_ exiswannabe _

Astrid bites her lip and makes a hissing sound when she turns around and immediately sees that little… _vermin_ scampering up the table leg and leaving little scratch marks where his claws dig into the wood. Klaus steps forward and carefully scoops up the bat in his hands. George responds negatively to this and starts fussing, trying to flap his wings and nipping at the exi's palms so he quickly sets him inside the box before brushing his hands on his turtleneck, frowning slightly. Klaus reaches for a slightly raggedy but clean handkerchief off the counter and folds it up before carefully placing it in the box with the bat, adjusting it so that it would at least be sort of comfortable, perhaps as some sort of bedding and something to keep him warm with. Astrid watches on as he closes the lid reluctantly and goes to fetch his scarf and some scrap paper and his little charcoal-bits.

“You'll be okay?” She asks, folding her arms. “I can help you get there. You—”

“I've been there, I've been there,” Klaus waves one hand dismissively, shaking his head. “Just go to work already.” Astrid opens her mouth to fight, but then she catches some sort of look in his eye—almost pleading her not to come. And in the moment, she can't help but wonder what it is he doesn't want her to see. She sighs and turns away. He's survived this long after all, right? He should be fine. Astrid will take care of whatever causes otherwise.

So it is that Klaus sets off into the late morning Hamburg snow carrying a shoebox with a bloodthirsty vampire inside, heading for the Reeperbahn and hoping he doesn't die in the process. At least George's friends should be happy to be reunited with their guitarist. He wonders if they know that he's a vampire. Would they understand if Klaus presents him to them inside a shoebox? He could just imagine the little flettermaus popping out like a jack-in-the-box and all of them having a good laugh about it. Even in his still-drowsy state, it manages to make him smile, so he entertains the thought all the way to the Kaiserkeller.

He only sees Paul at first. The club is just about empty, as it's daytime, and the pretty boy only lingers around the bar for some reason. At first, Klaus thinks the others are probably elsewhere, or maybe even still asleep, but then he spots the three on the other side of the stage, sitting around—looking dead. Astrid in all her motherly glory would have a seizure at the state of them, all filthy and knackered and skinny from starvation. But this one, the pretty one, at least, seems to recognize Klaus and watches cautiously as the exi boy approaches him, holding a… shoebox. “Your—band, I—mean… G-george, I catch… catch him…” he smiles meekly and shrugs a bit.

* * *

 

_ fangsharrison _

George had never been out in the sunlight in Hamburg. Not even keeping to the shadows… not even in a box. He'd been so predisposed worrying about turning into a bat again in front of Klaus that he hadn't realised that the truly terrifying part was being carried by him for twenty minutes in a flimsy cardboard box in the middle of the day with no cover. He could feel the sun above him, pressing in on the box's sides, like a contagion trying to get in. He was petrified to look down through the holes Astrid had made, as he could see the way the light shone on the icy pavement. And in the form of a small, instinctual animal his fear were only increased threefold, as his faculties of logic and reason (Klaus wouldn't drop the box, he seemed to care about George a lot, and he was an artist who had a steady hand) were all suppressed. Shaking slightly all the way, George had no idea where they were until suddenly there was no light anymore, the holes in the box went black…

Only two heads turned as Klaus walked in, Paul's and Stu's. John was staring with heavy lidded eyes at the bottom of his pint glass as if he'd seen something sad reflected in it, and Pete, as usual, was MIA. Paul however was polite if cautious when Klaus approached. He recognised him from some night last week - they all blurred into one in this place - he and George had had an argument? Something like that. He did however take the precaution of leading the exi kid away and into the corridor which led to a grotty dressing room with mould on the walls that John sometimes tried to drag birds into but was then swiftly dragged back out again by Köschmider. Paul gave the boy a look as if to ask his permission, and then took the box and opened it crack to see if he was being straight with him.

George got a brief glimpse of the familiar face, and instantly a mixture of relief and humiliation rushed through him. Then the box was closed again, and Paul was carrying it into the dressing room and slamming the door behind them. It was only when George's closest childhood friend opened the box and flipped it upside down on top of an ancient divan on creaky, rotting wooden legs. 'George, what the hell are you doing in there?' Paul smacked the box away once George was clawing at the divan's threadbare coverlet, and he felt it soar over his head like a house being uprooted by a hurricane. Paul was shaking his head at this whole mess. It wasn't that anyone was particularly angry. John had secretly quite enjoyed playing lead guitar even though he chatted shit George at the bar afterwards, and besides - at least he was back now. It was more the fact that George seemed to have adopted a suddenly lax attitude towards keeping his identity hidden around Hamburg. You could never be too careful, with Kontrolle tramping through every club after dark, singling people out. And that exi kid out in the hallway looked like a real snitch, if you asked Paul.

But he realised George wasn't going to respond in this state, and would probably be a bit, er- fuzzy for a few, after he turned back to normal. So instead Paul left him alone in the dressing room, closing the door on him for some privacy and taking the worried looking Klaus by one skinny arm to lead him back to the bar and sit him down at a table booth. 'Ye can wait for him here. But I should warn you. If you tell anyone about 'im, I'll kill ye. You hear that?' Paul warned with a raise of his arched eyebrows. Then, dropping the act, he adopted a friendlier - and a more tactical approach. 'I'll get you a beer while you wait for him.'

It was a long time before George even rallied the motivation to change back into himself. At least in here, as a bat, he didn't have to talk to anyone or explain anything. Or try and navigate the room between Klaus and his tougher mates. Or at least, Klaus would certainly think they were tough. Even Paul. Even Stu. But eventually he got himself together and shuffled out through the corridor and into the club. The first face he saw was Klaus's, and he braced himself before going over. There was a pint on the table now, untouched, and George took no hesitation in picking it up and downing it almost in one, the glass hitting the table again only when it was empty.

* * *

 

_ exiswannabe _

Klaus isn't sure how he feels about this pretty boy. He's—well, _pretty_. But also a teddy boy. Even those wide doe eyes convey a good measure of hostility in them, in spite of their charm and deceitful seductiveness. Klaus presses his fingers against the top of the table and swallows nervously, only glad it isn't that tough auburn-haired one that's threatening him, or even the smaller one with the glasses. They both have very sharp faces and narrowed eyes and surely all the alcohol dosage from how they've worked here in the club would have stripped them of their senses of empathy and even basic inhibitions. Rock 'n roll is the most powerful drug to the tenants of this hellish place and here there is no escape. He only manages to nod frantically at the pretty boy in response to that threat, coherent words escaping him quickly. He doesn't know what they'd do to him if he let anything slip. He doesn't want to know. And now suddenly he's not just afraid of being here, but he's afraid to leave or walk around or really do much at all. Anything could set off these ruffians and they'd shred his poor exi body into ribbons before he could say anything else on the matter.

He breathes a sigh of relief when George comes back. George wouldn't let them hurt him… right? Then again, these are his bandmates. Chances are the vampire would enjoy their presence more than he would Klaus's. The exi feels a twinge of envy at this. Yeah, so they're delinquents, but they've got each others' backs, haven't they? Even in spite of all the club fights and the chaos and the discord that rip this entire street into bloody streamers, they've been here in Hamburg and maybe even longer prior. Klaus wishes he had that sort of bond with someone—anyone. It must be nice, having a good couple of friends who'd always stick up for you no matter what. He feels homesick all of a sudden and wonders how his brothers are doing. Probably fine without him, anyway. He was always the one that got left out.

This band is special somehow. Klaus knows as much that creating a good art piece or even music or a film needs more than just a team of good artists or actors of musicians. It needs those artists and actions and musicians to connect with one another and to be able to stick to one another in spite of trials. That true harmony will go on to show in the finished product, and Klaus can certainly tell it in the way they interact with each other. Klaus isn't sure if he himself has that sort of relationship with anyone.

It'll be another hour or so before the club starts to fill up with regulars, the maus suspects. The sun seems to have just gone down already but it's still too early for the fun to begin. He stares down at his blank sheets of paper, lip trembling slightly. He doesn't want to leave just yet. He wants to stay and he's not sure if he could really explain why. Would they mind if he draws here? He looks around a bit, and then at George in front of him, who cocks an eyebrow but doesn't say anything in response. His hands feel twitchy and restless. He's absolutely got to do something. Maybe they'd think he's a sissy. Surely these troublemakers wouldn't have much taste for art. Klaus's world and that of rock 'n rollers are very distinct, and sometimes he wish it wash't but that's just the way things are. So slowly he slides his charcoals out of his jeans pocket and leans over his paper, carrying the smudge marks back and forth with ginger fingers.

It's not long before he quickly becomes invested in his work. The world seems to melt away around him and it's just him and his drawing and— _George_. The young vampire's eyes, so bright and acute and deep in nature, seem to bore into his forehead. Klaus knows he can't ignore him. He glances up curtly, briefly, if only to return the intense stare, before his eyes retreat to the paper again. A good ten or so minutes pass and Klaus is not sure exactly if it looks all that great but he's managed to sketch someone vaguely reminiscent of—big surprise—George. He lifts up the drawing for the guitarist to see, averting his gaze and sighing longingly.

* * *

 

_ fangsharrison _

Paul had put down another beer in front of George, amongst all the rest of the preparations for their set. It seemed like today they'd been particularly lazy, and no one seemed to have touched their instruments. George watched Klaus from across the table as he drank, silently, heavily, and then Paul came back with two more pints and George drank his one and Paul drank the other. Then Paul left again. All the while Klaus was drawing. Not looking up much, seemingly lost in his own imaginings. Now and then George glanced down at the paper through the side of his pint glass, but it was hard to make out from this angle.

Finally, by the time the drawing was finished George was feeling his usual self again. Young, drunk, carefree, and living his dream, exactly how he liked it. He wasn't being bathed or cuddled or wrongly imprisoned now. This was his territory. But even so, none of that was even playing in his mind. The alcohol took care of that. Right now he was simply buzzing with energy, overheating like a racing engine without the release valve. He wanted to get up on stage. Wanted to play his guitar. He came over to sit on Klaus's side of the booth and pulled the drawing towards him, seeing now that it was a picture of him, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. 'It's me,' he said, pointing at the thing. At this moment Stu and Paul came over, walking a few paces apart as usual, and leant over the back of the booth, staring at Klaus's drawing too. John followed them, already unsteady on his feet, and squinted at it, before realising what it was. The three exchanged looks above George's head, which the guitarist remained unaware of - and when he looked up to get Paul's reaction, Paul quickly changed his expression to one of mild veneration, slowly nodding and raising his eyebrows. 'He's not bad, this mate a'yours.' Stu carefully took the drawing, casting a little downpour of charcoal onto the tabletop. 'Maybe he can do our gig posters, eh George.' George hummed in brief agreement; but he was getting impatient. The place was filling up.

Shuffling out of the booth, he went to go and get his guitar, then returning to the table to sit there and tune up. The others not were setting up on stage, and John was testing his microphone with lewd jokes, mainly to do with germans. 'You'll stay an' watch then,' George asked with his ear to the frets, his fingers picking at the strings. He couldn't see Klaus nod, but simply assumed he had, and when there was a call from Stu, he looked up and smiled amicably at Klaus. 'Free drinks all night. As a thanks for… y'know,' he lowered his voice a little. 'Getting me back.'

With that, George went off towards the stage, hurrying as Paul and Pete crowded the edge of the stage to pull him up by the arms, cigarettes still hanging off their lower lips as they did so. It was the best feeling in the world, being on that stage when you hadn't for a few days. After a week of solid work sometimes it felt like torture. But not tonight. And when the set started, it was clear in George's playing. He was screaming and jumping and shouting along with Paul, knocking down their shared microphone and laughing along with John's practical jokes - largely unaware of what a spectacle they made, just five grimy lads going crazy on a beer-soaked stage, riddled with substances even they hadn't really kept track of. Very quickly George stopped worrying about what Klaus would think. He'd seen this all before, anyway. It wasn't as if he thought George was some kind of saint.

* * *

 

_ exiswannabe _

At first, he's suddenly very nerve-wracked when George leaves him. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, he almost considers standing up and moving closer to the stage if only to get closer, stay closer—but one glance at the crowd in between and he quickly shoves the idea aside. It's fine, it's fine—he'll survive one night in this damn hellhole; he's done it before.

And that small encounter with the rest of the band, Klaus realizes they're not… nearly as threatening as he first made them out to be. That smaller one with the sunglasses was very lighthearted about the drawing, even. Klaus had almost expected them to tear it up after a single glance and now knows he had misjudged them to be ruffians—when they really aren't all that bad. Even now on that stage, drunk off their heads, blaring their music, and kicking props off into the audience, there's a kinder side to them he's glimpsed at now and is hoping to get to know better. And maybe, if he's realized this about them, then Astrid could learn a thing or two about teddy boys—no, not just teddy boys, but George .

Astrid . Klaus reaches for a glass and peers into it thoughtfully. He doesn't know where he's going from here or how things will all turn out to be, but he knows he wants her to see it too—to see what he sees, or at least try to understand it. Maybe… he could try and convince her to come down here and meet this band for herself. All she's known so far of them is George, who has admittedly been trouble to her but only because of her fussiness. Perhaps a shift in setting could bring some new light into her.

He has a good feeling about this. Even though she’s always the one convincing him , this is a new chapter in their lives. Things are going to be different now and he'll make sure she knows that. Through this defeaning music and the sound of something crashing on the other side of the room, the maus smiles and rubs his eyes.

Klaus curls his fingers around a charcoal stick and on a new leaf of paper, begins to draw some more. He brings his other hand up against the collar of his turtleneck, tugging it down slightly and rubbing at a scar—the very first bite marks that George had left in his flesh just a month ago, and thinks of all that has transpired since then. It's been hectic and dangerous and totally out of anything he'd ever done before. He doesn't know what's going to happen next or how this is all going to end. But—he gazes softly at George, living his teddy boy days out on the stage with his sleek guitar and cheeky bandmates—he does know that whatever does happen, he'll stay by this vampire of his all the way to the very end of it. In any case, he promises himself that he'll be ready for anything.

* * *

 

**timeskip**

* * *

 

_ fangsharrison _

'Yes, I followed you,' said George. 'I like y'better when you don't know I'm here.' He paused for a moment, leaning lightly against the wall as he considered Klaus. 'You're quieter.' There was silence for a moment, and George listened to the faint creaking of the docks; a tangle of black stacks and cranes outlined against the sky. Soaked with hush, George could even hear his friend breathing on this negligible evening in the Grosse Freiheit. He smiled gently, quite in opposition to the personality he had woven for himself since he'd arrived in Germany; but Klaus wasn't looking and, unrecorded, the smile slipped away into the annals of time.

* * *

 

_ exiswannabe _

“Creepy.” Widened eyes, still recoiling from the initial scare, slowly blink over and become glassy again. Klaus brings a slightly shaking hand up to his face, rubbing over his icy cheeks nervously. He is shrouded in a layer of uncertainty, and perhaps some sort of lostness that gapes into a maw of distance between him and George, even though in reality they were no more than a few feet apart. Perhaps it's to appear mysterious, but Klaus reads like an open book; there's something on his mind.

“Well, I vas hoping to be alone for a little bit…” He shrugs, shuffling his feet and lowering his gaze—awkward as ever. “But now that you are here, maybe…?” A small offer and an even smaller smile reveal a faint shimmer of hope in the exi's eyes; a nimble hand reaches over to rest on George's arm as he tries to bury his troubles underneath his skin. “Let's v—walk around together, yah?”

* * *

 

_ fangsharrison _

It was less than a second before George realised that he was being hugged like some ill-fated stuffed animal. The arms around his torso and forehead touching his jacket hardly got a chance to settle before he was leaping up from the bench. 'Ey! What you playin' at?' he said, surprised. Though not as surprised as he should have been, given the exi's track record. He calmed down again once Klaus had retreated, and leaned against the wall with a disapproving frown, shaking his head as he lit a cigarette. 'Y'gotta get yourself a girlfriend, you do. Might shut you up from whinin' for 'alf a second.' Though he hardly believed that could happen. 'Teacher this, me that, Astrid said something' nasty to you. I thought I sorted that fella out, anyway.' He seemed to remember the man writhing in pain on a dirty floor, blood gushing from his ears or wherever. The memory was going the fuzzy way…

He stubbed out his cigarette and started walking. The rain had settled into a rhythm of persistent but fairly light downfall now. He turned back to see whether Klaus was coming. 'You coming after me or what? Better not let me out of sight, right, or I might butcher someone,' he called out sarcastically. But he grumbled to himself as he looked down to kick a stone aggressively into the quay. 'Chance'd be a fine bloody thing…'

Hamburg had been very fucking unforthcoming with victims for the past week or so. Lots of the clientele of the Reeperbahn had sifted out, too, since the summer ended and people went back to work. The working girls were all still here, of course, but you couldn't go after them because people noticed. George had loathingly been paying visits to the Altona quarter to meet Jurgen and collect helpings of blood from the hospital; like meeting a dealer in a dark alleyway. Handing over goods. But Jurgen didn't get anything in return. And he didn't ask. That was one of the advantages of being perceived as a dangerous monster by almost everyone, George had decided. When Klaus caught up he glanced briefly at the exi's pink-nipped cheeks and chattering teeth, and smirked. 'Shouldn't you be in bed?'

 

 


	12. 111-120

_exiswannabe_

Klaus winces when George pulls away—again. But he's not surprised, and he doesn't give it another try. Not yet, anyway. Though he's been so cold lately, stifling shiver after shiver underneath the wisps of cigarette smoke, so the next attempt will probably be sooner than he trusts himself to let it be. And the twinge he feels in his stomach when he hears the word 'girlfriend' doesn't help either because it's Astrid's image that flickers in his mind—and what good is she when it's a rogue vampire he's aching for?

The exi trips up a bit on his way to scamper and catch up with George a bit. Shaking fingers reach up to tug the scarf's hem up around his mouth and nose—and he shakes his head. “I… I don't v-want go home yet, remember? Teacher…” Gaze averted, he bites his lips and shudders. “I just don't want.” Icy wind claws at his face and exposed skin—his faded jeans aren't enough to keep the cold tolerable much longer. But, then again, he can't stay out here all night, can he? And it would be cruel of him to ask the same of George…

“M-maybe Jürgen is home?” He suggests softly. “He have room. I don't want see Astrid too because—she maybe angry to me. But Jürgen is okay vi'h you, right…?” He's been seeing the photographer more often outside of work now that they've been meeting up to hand blood packets over to George. That's right… when was the last time he had done that?

* * *

_fangsharrison_

George considered the idea vaguely. It seemed like Klaus wasn't going to shut up all night. George hadn't been listening to what he was whining about, but it didn't sound like the kind of thing he was interested in. But maybe Jurgen would. Then he could leave those two alone AND get a free bed for the day. More specifically, one which Paul hadn't passed out in last night half naked and covered in sweat. 'Alrigh' then,' he shrugged. 'I could do with a… non-alcoholic.' He wasn't sure what to call the blood supplies which didn't make it sound nasty, like a microwave meal. Not that it mattered. Klaus was disgusted by whatever he ate.

He let Klaus point the way and soon enough they were arriving at Photographer Jurgen's house. Only now did George remember how Jurgen had been pestering him to do some photos with him for the past two weeks. It was as if the guy thought George owed him something for saving his life at great personal and social risk, after he half murdered one of his friends and wrecked the house of another. The nerve of these exi kids, George shook his head as they waited on the front step.

* * *

_exiswannabe_

Klaus shuffles his feet on the porch anxiously, finally falling quiet for now. He doesn't want to be quiet—being with George is one of the few times ever he can stop biting his lip and just ramble on with words and words and more broken words, even if his counterpart always acts disdainful towards whatever it is he says or does. Klaus is no good with words; he'd end up just speaking gibberish soon enough. George could probably smack him across the cheeks every time he opened his mouth and he'd still want to keep on talking, just to fill the space. But he doesn't now, as the vague foreshadowing of an ominous happening begins to form like storm clouds above his head—though he can't put his finger on it, really…

Jürgen finally slides the door open, eyes shifting between the two of them tentatively, eyebrows furrowed slightly in question and an evident caution. But he nods without a word, opening the door further to let them in. Klaus is grateful that Jürgen lives on the ground floor—he's tired as it is and a flight of stairs could probably kill him at this point. The photographer is patient as he listens to a recollection of Klaus's story and why he's here anyway, always glancing at George every few moments as well—and sends the maus-exi straight to bed the moment he finishes talking. It's a small space so he only has the bed and a couch so for a moment he wonders if George would be alright just turning into a bat and sleeping hanging down from one of the ceiling beams. But he doesn't dare ask that yet—there's more pressing issues on his mind. He beckons the vampire closer, keeping his voice down.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

To George, as Klaus and Jurgen talked, the house was quiet as a church nave. In his mind only one thought was circling, having started excitedly as a little spark of anticipation, now something rich and dark and warm all through him, whirring round his mind as the German's words got nowhere near his ears. He was only half conscious of the fact that he was smiling expectantly to himself every few minutes, his smile twitching and fading and then returning, going away again…

Until finally Klaus got up, and Jurgen was holding open the door for him. The movement of the air disturbed George and he should have got up too but he was from the Reeperbahn and his role model was John Lennon. He didn't spare Klaus a glance as the artist slipped away into another room. His dark beady eyes were trained on Jurgen now. They followed him as he came back from the door and sat back in his chair again, and they remained on him with such an eagerness George was hardly aware of - would have been disgusted by if he was, given that it was a tiny plastic sack of rubbish that had got him acting so like an addict - as Jurgen brought him to lean in closer. George did. 'So Jurgen, eh- 'ave y'got something for me?'

Neither was he aware that his eyes were flickering minutely, the way Klaus's did, fast as a hummingbird's wings during still life drawings, to Jurgen's neck as he waited. He wasn't even thinking about that. It was one of the many instinctive things which were beyond his control or notice; had been ever since.

* * *

_exiswannabe_

Jürgen glances behind him one more time, watching Klaus slip away into the darkness—and suddenly feels very, very paranoid. He almost wants to call out to the other exi, ask him to come back so he won't have to face George on his own. The thought of being alone with this vampire… well, the creature hasn't eaten in a while. Jürgen knows that, because it has been several days since he last fetched the blood bags that he so craved… and, he doesn't want to acknowledge it, but there's a primal hunger that gleams in the teddy's eyes, festering with malicious intent and violent will. The photographer swallows, his blood running cold, like the blood in the blood bags he steals. And he knows that at this point, George doesn't mind cold food.

So he shuts the door, hackles raised and tense and gestures reserved. Carefully, he grazes his eyes upwards to meet George's—and then immediately lowers them again. He doesn't want to have to watch the ted's anticipation turn sour and curdle into rage, when…

“N-no, I… not tonight—n-not anymore. George…” He draws in a slow breath, clenching his fists so that his palms would not shake so much. “I can not do this more. I almost h-have got catched before, I… you, and I, bo'h vill get trouble if I am catch. Stealing, I'm… I am done stealing. Please understand—I… I can not help you anymore.”

His breath catches in his throat as he waits for the vampire's response. George's gestures are starting to get under his skin, pricking and prodding him from all sides like a predator toying with its meal before going in for the kill. He feels a twitch in his neck, and goes to pull the collar of his turtleneck up a bit higher.

 

* * *

_fangsharrison_

More confused than angry was George at the hold up, which he hadn't particularly listened to, now operating on instincts and actions more than complicated words. Human things. But he trawled his mind back and tried to work out what was happening here. Jurgen hadn't seriously just said no to him, had he? He found himself rising to his feet, a deep frown settled into place, but it was clear that George understood perfectly the basic fact of the matter here. That being: Jurgen was refusing to give him what he wanted.

Soon enough George was standing centimetres away from the exi. 'Y'can't help me?' he gave a silent laugh, his fangs showing in the mock smile that followed. 'I beg to differ, Jurgen.'

He pretended he couldn't hear the strain in Jurgen's breathing, the fear in his eyes. Instead his eyes roamed all the way up the man's body from his shaky looking legs, to his bloating and constricting chest, a vein twitching in his neck, a track of sweat running down just below his ear. The tip of George's tongue smoothed across his lower lip. And the next second, with a little hum of enjoyment which he didn't hear himself, he had shoved Jurgen back against the wall, pinning him there with two clawing hands against his chest, nails scraping innocently against the fabric. George had never had to be told not to play with his food as a child. But then of course, it's no fun playing with something that doesn't play back.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

The German feels himself freeze, apprehension keeping him locked in place as the ted rises to his feet and slithers closer. George's face, usually so cunningly innocent, is only lowered in shadow now—menacing. And with a cheshirely grin, the ted goes in for the kill.

Taken by surprise at the sudden advance, Jürgen stumbles as his spine hits the wall and in his bewilderment he's stunned—but only for a moment. The exi recovers his senses rapidly, met with the burn of fingernails digging into his skin and then his eyes are wide as instinct kicks in and he starts to struggle, shoving shaky palms against George in an effort to free himself. Fear begins to coarse through his throbbing veins. This is it. This is really it. I knew I should have never trusted…

When the vampire gives no sign of retreating, Jürgen looks up into his eyes—there's no doubt about it; the bloodlust, the primitive desire to control and kill. This isn't just child's play anymore. All these weeks of going out of his own way to hand over blood to this motherfucker, and this is how he repays him? The claws tighten—there's no time to think about that now. A gasp escapes the exi and then out of his own fear for life comes a crashing wave of adrenaline, giving him the strength to shove George to the floor and sprint for the door. “Klaus!” He calls out, voice shrill in his desperation. “Klaus, help me! Somebody! HELP! ”

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George only smiled and readied himself as Jurgen wasted time calling out for his friend. He wasn't sure if he liked an audience, but scaring Klaus had brought him some fleeting joy once or twice, so he wasn't averse to the idea; he let Jurgen shout. And when the man was finished, George crawled to his feet again and cornered him casually by the door, herding him into the corner and giving an interested hum. Then with a graceful swipe he slashed the underside of Jurgen's thigh through those papery thin trousers, and the shock or the pain brought him sinking down the wall to the ground.

Most animals are quite humane in subduing their prey. They use venom to anaesthetise, or snap the neck before they start to eat. Unfortunately for the young German sprawled on the floor, George was not an animal. And all sorts of ideas were playing around in his head. He waited a beat, just standing over Jurgen, observing curiously how the young man didn't move, or try to scramble away. He was simply looking up at George with that expression they always got. The expression you see on someone when you tell them that puppies like toys which squeak because they sound like the terror of small animals before they are killed. And George knew he could stand and watch for as long as he wanted; because Jurgen wouldn't move. He was frozen in fear, and though he must have wanted to, funnily, George smirked, it seemed he just couldn't.

'Sorry Jurgen,' he muttered a quick apology. He got down on his knees and fiddled with the jacket Jurgen was huddled in. He let himself find the best way to slip it off him like skinning a rabbit, tugging clumsily at the hems at both wrists so that Jurgen's arms hung in the air like a puppet. The little resistance this was met with George didn't even bother addressing. He heard footsteps on the other side of a door, and ignored them, smelling the blood seeping out into the floorboards from under Jurgen's leg. Then unceremoniously the body was rolled over onto its side and George settled himself on his elbows, one arm hugging round the man's neck as if in embrace, or sharing a secret. He twitched with each little fright the too-near yelps Jurgen let out gave him, but soon enough all of it drained away and he was enjoying himself very much. The warmth of the man's blood was in his stomach, and coating his tongue, and he changed his angle a little so that the man's face lay upturned towards the ceiling. 'Hello, Klaus,' George murmured perfunctorily as the door creaked open. Then he went back to his meal.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

Klaus is usually a quiet man. That's a given. After all, he's gone through most of art school without much more than a mumble, and when George dropped into his life, he's stifled calls to the police on multiple occasions, even in spite of the risk it put him and his friends in. He's just… quiet. That's the way he is and prior to this, he would have expected it to stay that way for a long, long time. / But this—this is too much.

The room is dark but the blood pooling underneath his friend's body is unignorable. Jürgen's horrified expression, contorted with mouth agape and wide, bloodshot eyes—totally frozen, totally helpless as George drained the life out of him, fixated on Klaus and yet seemingly nothing at the same time. Dying—being eaten alive.

And Klaus _screams_.

The silence that usually clouds his throat gives way to a shriek and his muscles all convulse at once because he is nothing short of horrified—the maus's lithe body soon sinks to the floor, slumped against the doorway as it all comes crashing down on him. It had been different when George fed on him—Klaus even would have _let_ him, if he asked. But Klaus never anticipated him to lay a single fingernail on his friends. He… he had trusted him not to! So then, why…

“Stop it! Stop it!” The exi screams, dragging his body forward and throwing himself against George and trying to push him off. Every pore, every little string of flesh in his body is in agony of what almost feels like betrayal. Shaking digits fight to pry the vampire off from its victim, to save one of his only friends, before it's too late. “Stop it! Get away from him!”

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

Klaus's scream sounded like barely more than a whistle of wind in the air to George. He could feel Jurgen's chest slowing in its breathing, though the heartbeat was still fast and uneven like a broken clock. At this point, when George was mouthing what felt like tough, bloodless flesh, Jurgen was starting to spasm and jerk every so often. George didn't know the particulars; that it was because he was going into shock. He frowned and tried to still the body underneath him, wondering if maybe Jurgen was uncomfortable because George was lying on him so heavily. He rolled the man onto his back and clung to him like a bear to a tree instead, his knee digging into the bloodstained floor where he crouched over his victim, and feeling the violent tremors through the man's knees on the inside of his thigh. It was a little eerie, being this close, feeling everything Jurgen was doing. He could almost imagine what it would be like to be the victim. To have all the blood forcibly sucked out of him. But then he merely smiled at the ridiculous thought. He wasn't the prey. He would never have to be the prey. That was the joy of being like he was. And no one - not Klaus, not Astrid, could take that away from him.

His nails were piercing little half moons into Jurgen's flesh again, around his ribs and stomach, trying to keep his grip. The blood was making everything slippery. Jurgen's hair was drenched with it, a deep brownish red, and there were tears streaking from his eyes. George swallowed, feeling for almost half a second, as if he was hurting someone who had once been his friend. But the feeling was brief, and his hunger eclipsed his human conscience so that all feeling was doused into blackness. His eyelids fell half closed and he relaxed into his feeding for a long minute, almost hugging his prey. And why shouldn't he? Jurgen was giving him what no one else in the world would at this moment. But then he felt Klaus pulling at his shoulders, pushing at his side to try and remove him.

He tore himself away and looked up at the artist, no remorse or guilt in his eyes, only annoyance at the disruption. Then a nice idea came to George, and a slow, budding smile. His eyebrows drew together and he got steadily to his feet, mindful not to lick his lips; not disturb the shining film of blood there which was running in fat rivulets down his neck and soaking the front of his t shirt. He heard a soft gasp from Jurgen as he left him on the floor, bereft of warmth and pressure on his wound. The vampire approached Klaus with deadly slowness, until his face was inches away and the smell of blood stifled the air between them. Laughing inside, George leaned in and placed a small kiss on Klaus's lips; touch hardly firm enough to be felt if not for the warm, wet liquid left behind to leak between the man's lips. His friend's blood. George pulled away, making sure to brush his cheek against Klaus's chin and leave a large crimson smear to dry there.

He turned and knelt back down to his victim, having given Klaus what he had wanted all this time, but, of course, on his terms - like everything else. Hopefully now Klaus would never ask for that again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't guessed already... no, Klaus and George don't end up together at the end of the thread. It's finished now (I just need to upload everything on AO3 at this point) and the other mun has been cockblocking me consistently since, so I guess it's not going to happen. I don't think he likes me very much. I've been toyed with and I'm very lonely now.
> 
> Please do not fret now, if you came here for ship material. I'm planning more Klaus/George fics. It's hard for me to write fanfiction on my own nowadays because I hardly ever get feedback unless I'm doing it with someone else or if it's a popular pairing... so please comment below and let me know if there's anything you want to see. I can do more vampire-AU things, or just small fluff drabbles, or whatever... 


	13. 121-130

_exiswannabe_

_no_

_no no no no no no n_

_not like this_

_not like this_

_how could you do this to me?_

For what seems like eternities, Klaus is utterly petrified. Nothing is turning in his mind, completely void of anything in the moment because there is no strength in him to process what just happened. Not this. Not George. George wouldn't do something like this to him, no… not when—not after all the time they had spent together. Not after everything Klaus had done to stay close to George… not after he's given up so much for his sake. There is a small feeling, almost too distant—the sensation of something trickling down from his lips to the cleft in his chin. But aside from that, only numbness.

Then, as if at the snap of fingers, the maus's knees buckle and give way underneath him and he collapses to the floor, limp—eyes still wide yet clouded with horror, and he begins to choke on air. The ground seems to cascade away from beneath his knees, darkness grasping out from in between the bloodstained floorboards to pull him under and suffocate him. He wants it to happen.

_i trusted you_

_why didnt you just take me instead?_

George's attention has already receded, refocusing back on Jürgen—or, rather, whatever's left of him. Klaus is left to recoil into the corner, being forced to watch the gears keep turning right in front of him as he sits back and does nothing. Each muscle is pulled taut and the exi-boy feels that if he were to move an inch, his body would be torn to shreds. There's nothing he can do; he's not strong enough to face George in this state. But…

Widened blue eyes dart across the room to the telephone stand, thankfully untouched in the midst of the chaos. Without thinking, Klaus drags himself across the floor, wincing with every movement and feeling agony shooting through him with every heartbeat. And while the vampire is preoccupied with his… meal, the artist maus shakily reaches for the phone and starts to dial. Bloodkissed lips whisper violently for 999, telling mad tales of vampires and assault and betrayal until anguish overtakes him and he succumbs to his trauma; lying motionless on the floor and yet still aware of everything around him.

* * *

_fangsharrison_

George was feeling the life start to choke out of Jurgen. He had drunk nearly all his fill, and Jurgen must have well under half of the blood in his body left. George murmured something which wasn't words, but something commiserative and consoling. Though the human rationality had left him, it had cleared the space for something else; something deeper, more instinctual. A type of wordless understanding of death, which George only assumed must be nearing them like oncoming rain. He stopped and lay quietly next to Jurgen, looking without feeling at the scars, scratches and trickles of blood which now dirtied his body. He wiped away smears of blood here and there with his fingers and licked the wounds in the young man's neck, the taste lingering on the tip and sides of his tongue. He played with Jurgen's hands, furling and unfurling the fingers, tracing the lines of the palms, all the while they lay still and limp.

He turned with a look of apathy as he heard the phone slam against the hook and then clatter to the floor, where Klaus was already strewn with murky eyes. He didn't particularly care. Whoever Klaus had reached with the phone, George was nowhere near the presence of mind it would take to understand the consequences. He held Klaus's traumatised gaze for what seemed like a very long time, not threatening, but all the same making sure the exi was glued in place; challenging him to even think about getting up or going anywhere. George was the sole director of what happened in this room. And he wasn't ready to be interrupted. His eyes were so dark and lacking in any nameable, recognisable expression that they had become almost pupilless. He nestled back into Jurgen's paling form to continue, and at one point the other managed to meet his eye. George hummed and touched his eyelids carefully. They would soon enough be closed.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

Klaus doesn't want to look at George. George's face is doused in blood. Jürgen's blood. Before, being able to gaze at the teddy boy would fill him with butterflies, but now, looking at it just makes Klaus's stomach lurch. The stench of _blood_ is overpowering and strongly metallic. For him, it's the smell of death, but for George, it's the smell of food. The thought of that causes despair to seep into his chest, settling in deep and tearing up his flesh from the inside out. He can't move or do anything to make it go away. He can't turn his head away from the bloodied sight in front of him, and he can't wake up from this nightmare.

 _Do you know who I just called, Georgie? I called the polizei. They'll be here any minute now, so savor the moment, because this is your last meal._ The exi-boy has no strength left to form the words aloud; they can only squirm around in his throat and start to contaminate him. A seed is planted in him and it's sprouting quickly, furling spindly roots around his blood vessels and choking out the oxygen.

Klaus's fingers furl against his sweaty, cold palm. It had been less than an hour before he had tried to hug George out in the cold by the ocean. He tried to hug a vampire. He's _been_ trying to hug a vampire. A _monster_. And the one he thought he could trust had just almost-murdered one of his best friends in cold blood. Glazed over blue eyes dullen softly, because he really does like George a lot. Even now, his heart is aching and heavy, pressed up tight against the floorboards. It didn't have to be like this. He just wanted so badly to be with him, and to keep him company. But with this, the vampire has forfeited his chance. The police will come. It will all be over soon. Jürgen will go to the hospital and Klaus will go home, and eventually it will be like nothing ever happened; like Klaus had never met George, or gone on any adventures with him, or really even loved him at all. He finally squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ignore the tears that pool into his eyelashes.

Men in stark uniforms kick the door down, unsheathing their guns and batons. Some of them shout to each other, others at George—harsh orders in German, demanding surrender. Sirens wail outside in the night, piercing the weak air with shrill calls for help. Klaus doesn't move; neither does Jürgen.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

At the police station, everything was so hectic George had forgotten to be scared; that he was in the one place he feared more than anywhere else on this planet, the stage for all of his nightmares. It wasn't how he imagined it, either. The lobby had a plasticky floor and grime on the walls, and the light was bright and stung his eyes. No dim cobwebbed rooms and bloody floorboards. By the time he was human enough to realise what was happening he could feel his heart stammering in his chest, afraid on his behalf perhaps, since the only thing George was looking at at that moment was the ragged waif-like figure of Klaus on the other side of the room, being interrogated by a towering man in an officer's overcoat. He was barking in the exi's face like a hellhound, snapping at him in German and english alternately, seeing as Klaus wasn't giving any answers in either language and George on his part had been swearing in exclusively North-of-England at them since the beginning.

'Where did you come from? Where did it? What's your home address? How long have you know about the presence of a vampire in our city? Do you understand the law in Hamburg? Are you stupid?' What little George could understand, he laughed internally at. _Yes, he was_. Look at him. Shivering in a blanket like a shellshocked child. _He's known the whole time,_ George wanted to shout over to the man. He liked it! But George was experiencing his own problems. Two people who weren't police, but perhaps scientists or psychologists or hobbyists for all he knew, were inspecting his nails and his teeth and the muscles in his arms. One of them looked impressed and in awe of George. The other just seemed sad for some reason. George preferred the first one. Someone wiped the blood off his face with a damp rag, and stuffed the rag into a sealed plastic bag. George watched it hit a pile of his other bloody, bagged-up possessions. His socks, shoes, Paul's watch, and even some of his fingernails which he only now noticed had been trimmed on one hand. His lip snared as he imagined the fate of the policeman who had to pick bits of Jurgen's flesh out of them in some forensics lab later.

The bench he was reclining on wasn't particularly sturdy, and in an effort to leap up and make for Klaus, to scare the shit out of the stupid bohemian one last time, he put his foot through one of the wooden panels and startled the policemen huddled all around him, who immediately held him back. But he had got Klaus's attention. 'I'll kill ye, fucking idiot! I'm gonna get out and kill ye Klaus. Y'deserve it, stupid twat!' He could hardly grasp the seriousness of the situation; it was all too fleeting, too sudden and unexpected. He wasn't ready to die, and he didn't expect to. Perhaps Klaus truly believed it was going to happen, but George himself couldn't bring himself to believe the police even could kill him. It was just a rumour he'd heard, anyway. He'd never seen any proof. Suddenly a small needle pricked his finger and he looked up in surprise to see the man who had looked sad testing the prick of blood on a small strip of paper. He went back to the desk and then turned back to the policeman who had George by the arms. 'He's only had about half what you want from one kill. He's still hungry. A litre or so more would be fine.' If anything George wondered whether he was better off here. They seemed, for some reason, to know what they were doing. Better than he did, anyway. And in the back of his mind he knew that if things got serious, he had the secret immunity of being able to turn into a bat and sod off without anyone even noticing.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

Klaus doesn't know what it is he had done to warrant all this in the first place. What sort of bad karma had he scraped up in the previous life for him to meet such a cheeky, beautiful boy that brought so much love and excitement into his greyed out life, only to open his eyes and find that he had been toying with him the whole time? The bubbles in his ears that had been blocking out the officer's snarls thus far suddenly burst when George lunges forward, startling the poor maus as he spat… horrible things. Horrible things, wishes of death. By the vampire's own hands… _'stupid twat'_ . Klaus winces harshly and jerks to the side, his head suddenly filling up with pressure and pain. Eyelashes flutter closed and let go of memories. The times when he thought George didn't mind having him around. The times when he thought George really did like him, in his own way, and had given him some reason to live—something that is rapidly draining now. “Just do it, then.” The exi hisses bitterly, blocking out the thought of George's imminent execution. “Do it right now, like you did to my friend Jürgen. _Monster._ ”

But that's enough of that as another officer steps forward and turns him away. The exi doesn't object; he has nothing left to say to the guitarist. Everyone around him is clearly just frustrated with Klaus. _Good grief; they know it too. It'd be better if I just disappeared._ But he follows orders and stays put and now the loud officer is barking even more now—almost scolding him for being so… stupid . As if he doesn't already know what he is. Klaus answers to nothing and focuses only on holding back a burst of tears. He doesn't want to give George the satisfaction of being able to make him cry one last time.

And yet—the moment he steps outside of the station almost two hours later, the icy sting pricks his eyes and as if bursting open a water balloon, the tears come forth immediately and he slumps to his knees right up against the wall. The sobbing is ugly but otherwise quiet. Maybe if he were a more arrogant person, he'd find triumph in how he had managed to keep it out of George's sight. But no such triumph can be found for Klaus as he grieves for so many people at once; salty tears streaming down his cheeks and glistening in the faint light rousing against the horizon; the precedents of dawn approaching gradually. A symbol of hope for many, and a chance to start anew. Klaus grabs a drainpipe and hoists himself up on quivering fawn legs. His breathing is harsh and retains little oxygen, and he stays like that for several minutes, just clinging tightly to the drainpipe trying to catch his breath between hiccups, trying to gather the strength to advance forward. _Alone._

It's many more minutes before he scrapes up the strength to let go and continue down the deserted streets, the first hints of cold sunlight leaking over the tips of distant buildings. Behind him, the police station seems so much further away, and his mind is numb. What happens to George now will not be any of his concern. He took care of a dangerous, volatile criminal, and that's the end of it. But still does Klaus swallow uncomfortably, bittersweet memories resurfacing so frequently they threaten his peace of mind. It will be many moons before he'll be able to sleep without tossing or turning.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

It took three days for George to fully realise the direness of his situation at the _Polizeistation_. He soon realised how the police had prevented his (likely premeditated) original escape plan, by holding him a cell with no windows, and door sealed tightly around the edges with gum. He had been so heavily drugged for the safety of all the people around him that he was hardly even able to think about escape. Until he realised that he had been moved into two different vacant rooms over the course of the three days, and he knew that they had been occupied when he was first shown into this corridor. They really were getting rid of vampires, somehow. At this point George panicked. He realised he had to get out the first opportunity he got - and when someone came in to take him to eat, he took it.

He couldn't remember exactly how many people he'd injured or perhaps even killed in his escape. He had been drugged, again, but it was wearing off now as he stumbled through the sidestreets of Hamburg, dragging himself along against the building walls just to keep himself upright, and stooping lower to the ground with every step. People avoided him for his deathly pale skin and the weak murmurs and groans he made, like the old loons who everyone feared would turn violent if eye contact was made. Once he heard police sirens a few streets away, and saw the flashing of the lights against a warehouse wall. But he kept to the shadows. He was hardly aware of where his feet were taking him, his mind heavy and inaccessible like the rest of him. That was, until he recognised the tall, distinctively German architecture of the Altona neighbourhood. He remembered this place. But not the street names. Not the particular house. He wandered blindly until his strength gave out, and only one crossing away from the Kirchherr home, he finally collapsed, just as the haze of evening disappeared. Night folded in around him, and a frost came quickly in succession. George's lips were numb and colourless, his breath was hardly stirring the air above the pavement where he lay.

But at least he was out. And he didn't feel like killing - anything. Not even the rat which scurried over his outstretched hand, the feel of its grimy tail making his stomach twist uncomfortably. No one would recognise him like this. With his face in the ground, dressed in god only knew what - he wasn't aware, only that it was cold - his feet bare and without any scrap of leather on him. No cheeky smirk or quaffed back hair. No one. Not one of the many people in Hamburg who wanted to kill him, or torture him, or punish him for doing what was in his nature. At least he was so pathetic he was now beyond their scouring eyes.

 

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

Astrid has been working alone lately. Well, not entirely alone—Reinhart is always at the studio, of course. But Jürgen and Klaus haven't shown up in the past three days. With Jürgen missing, that means that all the workload just gets dumped on Astrid, which is frustrating, to say the least. And Klaus… while he isn't himself a formal photographer, he did always try to be helpful by aiding in setting up the camera and lighting rigs, otherwise just moping around close to the wall as he worked on his own art. He was just sort of lonely most of the time, and Astrid supposes that being around the studio helped him a little bit. In any case, she didn't object to having him around, and wonders now where they could have gone. She asked Reinhart about it earlier in the morning, but he too was clueless. Motherly instinct had been beginning to set in very quickly and for the longest time now she has been lying awake in bed, eyes wide open as her anxiety grows and grows until she simply cannot stand it anymore and resolves to go visit them both at home right now.

Throwing on her black cotton shirt and glistening leather jacket, Astrid runs a shivering hand through her hair as she heads out the door, in a rush—only to stop dead in her tracks when she sees… someone. The darkness and the thick fog combined makes it hard to see, but—yes, there is definitely a person lying down on the pavement across the street. The exi feels a twinge of even more worry but can't bring herself to head away just yet, if there's yet another person who needs her help. The mysterious figure is skinny and dressed in what looks like a white but lightly blood-splattered hospital gown, and doesn't appear to move either. When Astrid considers the possibility that they might be injured, she makes her decision right there and then. She can't abandon them now. So it is she crosses the street on sprinting feet and kneels down carefully a few feet away. The frigid cold bites down harshly on her body but she doesn't falter. “Hallo? Hallo…?” She calls out a few times. But when she receives no response, the photographer winces and pulls herself closer. Stifling her usual caution in favor of helping, she gently lifts the person's head and shoulder in her hands, turning them over slightly so she could get a good look at their face—

Astrid almost screams.

 _George?_ The vampire who had been toying with Klaus for several weeks now, and who only seemed intent on causing grief for her? It can't be. She hates him. She hates him for how smug and cheeky he is and how deceitfully innocent he looks. She hates him for endangering Klaus and stealing his blood, and then having the audacity to keep leading him on. But… his usual smirk is completely gone now. The boy's face is almost broken. He's very cold, shaking violently, with none of his usual leather gear or even a pair of shoes. And rapidly, so rapidly, Astrid feels the motherly instinct settling in again. God damn this motherly instinct. She can't ever help but care for poor little cold boys, and it dawns on her that she'd go as far to extend the same courtesy even to vampires. How sickening…

 _He'll freeze to death out here if you do nothing,_ the girl grimaces inwardly. And now she has even more questions than before. _What are you doing out here all by yourself?_ She wonders of the vampire. _Do you know where my friends are?_ Carefully, she tugs his body closer to her and sits up so she can cradle his head on her lap. He's limp, and even deceptively heavy for his skinniness. She leans down slightly, and gently wipes grime off his cheek with a thumb. “George? Is me. Astrid. Go inside, please. V—wi'h me. I am help you, so please—come wi'h me.”

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

The voice sounded familiar. Whether this was good, or very bad, George didn't know. He tried to align his thoughts into any logical enough order to work it out, to do something, protect himself; but he couldn't, and he let his face fall flat into the person's lap again. The sound had made his ears ring, and he winced in discomfort.

Just then, he did recognise something. When he breathed in, the scent of the person's newly washed clothes filled his nostrils and he was suddenly presented with a flash of memory. A dark bedroom, where he was putting on his own clothes, which were fresh just like this, with the same scent. Some brand of washing powder or soap. Someone had washed them for him. Astrid. George couldn't rally himself to look up and check, but the scent played more powerfully to his senses than sight would right now; he knew it was her. What he still didn't know, however, was if she knew what he had done to Klaus and Jurgen, and those police officers.

Frustration and confusion whirred through him like a fitful storm, and he became panicked when he realised he couldn't work out what he needed to do. In desperation he found himself reaching out to grab at the girl's legs, his nails digging in a little too harshly and dragging at her calves. He latched onto her trousers and made tiny frays down the fabric as he tried to pull himself up this way. Then suddenly he couldn't remember what he was doing, and thought he must be struggling - trying to get away. So he scrabbled on his knees and tried to push her away from him, getting blood on her shirt, her arms, a faint smear on her neck. But he wasn't very strong; nor very motivated, and in the end he simply gripped a fistful of her shirt in his hand and collapsed into her knees once more. 'Jurgen,' he breathed into the strong smell surrounding her. '…Jurgen.'

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

When George starts panicking and clawing at Astrid, she yelps softly and almost shoves him back onto the cold pavement. But the burst of anger is fleeting; just as quickly as he struggles, he falls still again over her. Astrid's throat is beginning to close up from the frigid air enveloping her. It's not like there's much she's able to say to the vampire, but she needs to find a way to hurry and bring him inside. Maybe he'll be able to think better if she can get him someplace warm and safe first. _Klaus's bed in the attic,_ she ponders lightly. It's vacant at the moment, and she's certain he wouldn't mind for now.

“Jürgen?” Astrid breathes softly, gently nudging his head again as a worried frown creases her features. “Hey, Jürgen is where? George…” A few more nudges yield little success. _It's no good now_ , she grimaces. So gently, she tries to help him up slightly, onto his knees at least. The teddy boy starts to protest again, but he's weak and almost sluggish so she's able to tolerate the way he keeps cuffing at her—like a sick animal who just doesn't know any better. Astrid hoists him up, wincing when he makes a noise that sounds pained, but manages to support him gently. So the two of them stand, exhaling billows of icy breath, before the exi finally manages to move forward again.

Astrid almost has to drag George across the street but soon enough, they're both in her house and she's able to shut the door behind her. The flights of stairs, they too are an obstacle, and the teddy boy's legs are constantly giving out from under him. She'd be lying if she said it wasn't much of a hassle but she can't stand to give in now. Once at the top, she lets George slump down into Klaus's bed and now with proper lighting, she can get a good look at him.

She can't tell if the blood on his garments are his own or—god forbid—someone else's. He does seem to have sustained injuries, but she doesn't know what from. She has lots of questions, certainly, and if George knows where her friends have gone… well, in any case, she will have to clean him up a bit and get his hair standing up again. George doesn't look quite right without his usual teddy quiff.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

Astrid's words were as distant as the clouds as George gave in to his longing despite it being the beginning of night, and slipped into deep sleep. He was up again at least three times during the night, though hardly aware of it, upset to find himself still covered in blood and dressed as a prisoner, yet not recognising his surroundings. Were he still inside the police station, this would have meant something very bad. And, as instinct directed, George in his half conscious state broke into a panicked frenzy, starting as just a tossing and turning on the bed, struggling to rid himself of the heavy blankets, but quickly becoming more destructive. He ripped the pillow cases and tore the fabric apart until feathers littered the mattress. Then he fell asleep again, and the next time he awoke he fell out of bed, bringing most of the bedding with him. In his sudden fight to escape it he caught his foot on a nail in the floorboards and stained a red trail across them as well as the sheets as he ran for the door, believing himself to be under attack. Not even trying the unlocked handle, he scratched and yanked at the doorframe, gouging tracts in the wood and digging away little chunks of it around the bottom. But all of the movement seemed to wake him up a little, and he realised he wasn't in any danger, didn't want to wake anyone and was ashamed of the destruction he'd caused - so he went back to bed and passed out again under the last remaining blanket.

By the time he woke the next day, he had no recollection of the night's events whatsoever. He could feel the late afternoon sunlight at its brightest, and though he knew the curtains were still closed, he stayed underneath the covers all the same. His nerves were still in a fractured state from the past week's events. He could feel his hunger returning, more insistent now than it ever usually was after three days of regular meals at the police station. He started to wonder whether Astrid had anything around the house he could somehow eat. Raw steak in the fridge, or animal blood soup. But even the image of those things made George feel like gagging and his stomach give an unpleasant turn. Still, he listened closely for a while, trying to work out wether Astrid's mother was in the house with him. He couldn't quite remember what floor he was on, whether to listen above or below… but when he heard a floorboard somewhere twitch, he drew in a breath and decided that he was not going to leave the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> goodness, i'm so, so sad.


	14. 131-140

_exiswannabe_

In her exhaustion, Astrid had drifted off in the night, sleeping right through the bloody murder that ensued in the room right above her own. But morning always comes eventually and she was woken very early—the sun is barely up and the only hint of an approaching dawn is a violet and soft red stream of clouds close to the horizon. It was, what—almost two in the morning when she found George, was it? Astrid grimaces and fights the urge to pull the covers up over her head. She has to check on him. No doubt he didn't sleep any better than she did.

Astrid jolts back in shock when she sees the state of the room. Little splinters from the mangled doorframe litter the floor and the bedside lamp had been knocked over—thankfully only dented. The blankets, they too are on the floor, and George is huddled underneath only one cover. Klaus would be in wrecks to see how his vampire friend had so ruthlessly torn up the little haven he had made for himself here. At least his art desk in the corner is mostly untouched. Last time, that hadn't been the case. She'll clean up later but for now there's something that needs to be addressed first thing.

“George?” She treads over to the bed carefully, nudging his shoulder with gentle query. “I… I know—y-you… are, need—er.” Astrid averts her gaze for a moment, drawing in a breath. “Blood…? Is it? I… I can help—you. From, animals, but—is only th'ing I know. Wait here, please. Yes?”

The teddy boy doesn't seem keen on answering her. She sees him shifting under the blanket, but only slightly, and decides it's best to leave him be for now. There's a slaughterhouse just outside the city, isn't there? Astrid had passed it a few times. They probably dispose of animal blood a bit carelessly because it did always reek of the stuff even though she never got that close. But anything will have to do now because Astrid knows if she doesn't take care of it, she'll be the next one ending up clamped in between George's incisors.

—

She was right. The waste byproducts of the animals are being kept in a fenced-in courtyard-like area outside the actual plant, pretty much unguarded except for when factory workers would come out to dump more into those bins. The stench is horrible, but not unbearable, and swooping around in between the barrels of stuff only takes a moment and Astrid manages to find what she thinks is the freshest or cleanest blood. It's gruesome, having to scoop it out into the gallon bottle she brought with her, and nauseating as well. So once she has what she needs—well, what George needs, she hightails it out of there and heads back home.

“George?” Astrid calls out when she gets inside, hauling the bottle up onto the kitchen counter. “Come here please!” Hopefully he won't be too agitated to accept her offering. She doesn't want to have to explain to her mother why there's a big gallon of animal blood sitting in the kitchen.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

The house was silent for a long time. George drifted in an out of sleep, then started to get bored and wandered about the room, kicking the sheets around, picking up things; until he noticed the art desk. He sat down in Klaus's chair, looked at all the drawings. The one of him all torn up was inside an envelope in pieces. He looked through the sketchbooks that were dated more recently. Klaus's work had become darker, more erratic. The sketches were full of crazy looking scenes, half abstract half real. And they were scary. George didn't see himself hidden in some of them.

The voice from downstairs caused him to purse his lips and quickly start putting the papers back where he found them. But no footsteps followed on the stairs, and George realised he had been… called. Tentatively, and hoping he hadn't just imagined it, he opened the battered door and ventured down into the empty upstairs hall. Here suddenly a familiar smell reached him. But not the good kind. This made him want to go back upstairs just so he wouldn't have to face it. Partly because he knew he was going to have to succumb to the animal blood at some point - or he would starve. Maybe it would be worth it…

When he appeared, silent as a shadow, in the kitchen, he stood to linger in the corner of the room for a few moments. Astrid didn't notice him, but he watched her busying herself with putting away loose utensils and anything that could be messed up if not on a hook or in a cupboard. Readying a warzone perhaps. He went over to the table and grimaced at the massive plastic tub on the table. Astrid had put it on a tea towel as if she didn't want it touching the wood. He reached out and touched it with the tip of a single finger. Stone cold. He shuddered. His stomach lurched.

And finally, when he went to sit down and sulk on the small sofa by the wall, the slump of fabric made a noise to announce his presence. He hugged a cushion under one arm, still glowering at the bottle from across the room. And shook his head. _No…_ there was no way he could get that down. A sort of growl hummed in his mouth. 'No thank you,' he said. 'I can't.'

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

Astrid nearly jumps when George seems to have materialized on the couch without her noticing him entering the room at all. He must have snuck past—such is the cunning, stealthy nature of vampires. And, as she expected, he doesn't look particularly pleased about the blood… which doesn't bother or at least surprise her much. This blood, though only a few hours old at most, had been drained from its hosts and is probably a mixed bag coming from several different animals. She wouldn't like that either. Still, though, Astrid lets out an exasperated sigh and rubs her forehead with the back of her hand. It _reeks_ , and she just wants to be rid of it. Either George will take it or he won't and then she'll just throw it out. It's times like these she misses her mother's cooking…

“Eat, or no.” Astrid simply shakes her head and goes to put the kettle on. “But you are not eat people, okay? Not now.” Leaving the water to boil for a while, she goes over and leans against a column a little closer to him. She doesn't want him to be hungry. She really doesn't. But at the same time, she won't risk putting others in danger to satiate him. George's creased expression tells her plenty—that he couldn't care less. But he's exhibiting self-control, for now. Otherwise, she'd already be trying to fend him away from herself. Yes, he grimaces, but at least he's sitting still while he grimaces. And what a poignant grimace he has, so very sharp and moody and something akin to how Klaus carries himself, but deadlier, less sad-moody and more hostile-moody. For several silent moments, the exi girl entertains the thought of bringing George to the studio to photograph him—but it's fleeting because she remembers suddenly that vampire's don't show up in photographs. Or is it only mirrors…? Or maybe they don't show up only in those old-timey photographs with cameras and film that worked differently than the equipment she has now. Her memory is a little fuzzy and she wonders if there are such guidebooks on vampires. At this point in time, it would almost be getting a pet care guide. It'll be something to keep in mind.

Then for a flicker, her mind flashes back to how George had croaked Jürgen's name last night, sprawled out on the pavement and clinging to her desperately. “… My friends,” The photographer suddenly says aloud, almost without thinking. “Jürgen. He is gone. Klaus too.” Pale blue eyes shift over to him softly, only dull and exhausted. She doesn't want to accuse him of anything just yet, but if he knows what became of Voormann and Vollmer, well… she has to know, doesn't she? She's clueless, but so very worried. And after this, of course, she ought to visit her two exi friends at their respective flats—if they're even there. “Where, Georgie? My friends, where? You know?”

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George felt himself getting angry again. The same buildup of tension all through his body which had ended with killing Jurgen the last time he'd felt it. At least, that was what he must assume had happened to the older man. He bit the inside of his lip to keep himself from reacting. He didn't want to live up to Astrid's expectations of him - but it was so frustrating. She seemed so flippant when she said he could simply take or leave the disgusting stuff. Like she really didn't care how foul it was, that he'd actually have to get that stuff down him or else he'd die. And all because the idea of him drinking human blood didn't sit right with her moral compass. His thoughts were getting carried away. He found himself looking at her in a different light; the same light he had seen Jurgen in before. Like prey.

His dark eyes darkened, and he let the moisture build in his mouth, staring as if hypnotised at Astrid's pale neck. Her collar bone twitched and he felt it in his gut. His breath came out deadly slowly now, and his surroundings started to lose focus. He let out a nearly inaudible hum and found himself suddenly imagining in vivid detail the feeling of her skin being pierced, the comforting warmth of her blood coating his teeth… the look on her face when he jumped up and went for her like a dog breaking off its chain. His tongue flickered out to lick his lips.

But then he realised what he was doing. He rationalised his thoughts again, though it took so much effort he almost wondered if it was worth it, and reminded himself that she was the only one standing between him and the police right now. He was hidden here, and he did not want to be thrown out. Nevertheless, it was painfully obvious what he'd been thinking. In embarrassment, and partly to deflect the attention off his little episode, and Astrid's question which he'd no intention of answering, he furiously got up, threw the cushion aside and started to haul the bottle of blood off the table and into his arms. It was too heavy to carry in the current state he was in, so he made do with dragging it by the plastic handle, out of the kitchen, down the wooden corridor past two other rooms, and out into a small concrete area covered with corrugated iron. Where Astrid kept the bins. He straightened up, and stared with eyes narrowed in suspicious hatred at the thing. He tapped his knuckles against it, and then unscrewed the lid, considering drinking it straight from the opening. But the stench overwhelmed him and he couldn't do it. He sat down frustratedly against the wall and had a rethink, before tentatively pulling the thing over - it was wider than his fucking chest - and holding it in his lap. He tested the plastic with his teeth, and closed his eyes. He imagined it was something else. A body; just slightly colder, and much stiffer. Maybe something some other vampire had rejected. It helped a little, but as soon as his teeth pierced the plastic and he started to taste the mixed animal blood, feel it going down into his stomach, chilled and dirty, he had to hold back from gagging. Several times. The plastic was also too brittle, and he was spilling the stuff so that it dribbled thickly down the sides of the bottle and into the concrete. The front of his shirt was stained too by the time he'd got through as much of the stuff as he could manage - about ¾ of the gallon inside. He made a noise of disgust and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, for some reason unable to get his lip to un-snare.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

Astrid tenses up when George allows his gaze to harden and hover against her skin, almost just like loosening one's grip on a dog's leash and allowing it to run rampant as it pleases. Subconsciously, her mind delves into her memory of self-defense methods—things like using elbows and shins to deliver strong jabs, and how a good kick in the crotch can easily disable any man, no second thought. Where had she left the crucifix last? In her bedroom, all the way up on the third floor. It would be no good to try and run for it now if George decides to pounce on her. Even in his weakened state, her chances of survival would be low if she tried…

But, luckily, George seems to jolt out of his trance and avert his eyes, almost ashamed of himself. When Lady was just a puppy, Astrid remembers having to scold her often and then she would whimper and cower slightly with her tail in between her legs, and that's what the teddy boy reminds her of just now. So he slinks off, dragging the cursed potion off with him. The girl suppresses a shudder and lets him go—she doesn't want to have to watch him find a way to… eat it. But then, too late, she realizes he also did it to escape her questions. _Ugh._ Biting back even more frustrations, Astrid leans against the wall, waiting for several more minutes.

The sun will be coming up soon and, remembering its effect on vampires, Astrid goes to draw all the curtains. She's always been quite a fan of natural lighting so she hates how the room suddenly seems much darker, even with all the lamps on. But she tolerates it for now—she'd rather have a dark room and a living George Harrison rather than a lit one and a pile of ash.

As she begins to feel more awake, Astrid sighs at the thought of having to work again. She'll be all by herself for the fourth day in a row (Reinhart isn't as emotionally available as Klaus or Jürgen), but even more pressing than that… is how she'd have to leave George alone all day. Anything could happen while she's away, and though he's a cunning vampire, she knows the guitarist could be quite reckless at times. And if he's hiding from the police, as she guessed last night… the responsibility of keeping him hidden here is even more crucial. Suddenly, as worry spikes through the interior of her bleating skull, she goes and follows after him.

The photographer makes a pained expression to see him on the floor, begrudgingly holding the bottle in front of him. It seems mostly empty now—at least he'll be full for a while. How long will it last him? She guesses it'll be a while. Hell, she _prays_ it'll be a while. Even only having gone through it all once, Astrid begins to fancy the thought of just setting him loose in the St. Pauli stomping grounds to hunt freely, like he's meant to do. Giving him this cold and filthy animal blood feels something like feeding processed grain kibble to a feral dog, whose teeth should really be sunk into fresh meat and not dry little pellets. In any case, she'd have to be careful about how often she lets him eat. How often do they have to eat, anyway? Astrid was never told. The idea of getting a guide book comes up in her head again so she keeps it in the back of her mind.  ****The idea of getting a guide book comes up in her head again so she keeps it in the back of her mind. “I must clean it,” she says simply, and thinks for a moment. “Have Klaus jacket, Klaus room clos-et. Leather, soft.” She tries to remember if he has any dress shirts, or anything really that the ted would tolerate as he hadn't responded well to the turtleneck last time, but the jacket she knows should be alright. She hopes he wouldn't mind if George wore it around for a bit, not knowing what became of his own.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

The effect of the tainted blood was immediate. George's expression twisted uncomfortably as nausea started to set in. He could no longer taste the stuff, but if it was possible the feeling of it inside his gut was worse. And oddly heavy, unlike human blood which seemed lighter and smoother and less stodgy. However it was some comfort knowing that he'd managed to acquiesce to something Astrid wanted from him. At least now he had something under his belt to prove to her he was trying to be cooperative. He wasn't stupid. He knew she didn't like him.

He glanced up, still trying to fight down the sick feeling, and frowned at her words, before suddenly becoming aware of the way the shameful smock thing was sticking to his chest with blood and understanding what she meant. Well, as long as it wasn't asking about Klaus and Jurgen, he'd take it. He got up and went back into the house, already on edge as he felt the air becoming warmer by minute degrees and the sun looming just below the horizon of the earth. He tracked no blood through the corridor before reaching the kitchen; his feet were clean - on some level. When he reached the warm room he saw a cup of tea on the table and a piece of toast in the griddle. She hadn't had time to get it out.

Wanting to be helpful, but just forgetting one thing - to wash his hands before he did it - George took the piece of toast out and put it on a plate, then went into the fridge and got out Astrid's butter and placed it on the table with the toast. As he sat back on the sofa where he'd been before, he noticed Astrid stood in front of him, still staring at him expectantly, and remembered. A little annoyed that he was being exiled to Klaus's room, he frowned and stood up pointedly. His fingers found the hem of the gown and he pulled it off himself and handed it to her; blood and all. There was still a faint pink smear coating his chest, but it was mostly dry now. He sat back down, trying not to wince as the nausea returned to his stomach. Full, yes, he supposed; but he was still in just as bad a mood as he was before.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

Astrid has to suppress a sigh with his attitude and all. She's not happy with much of this either, really—having to scrub animal blood out of a hospital gown isn't the most refreshing way to spend a morning. But it's either that or let him continue wearing it and she simply could not stand to see the damn thing anymore. She bundles up the fabric underneath her arm and hopes he can just take the initiative to find something to wear without fucking it up too much. It shouldn't be too hard since he and Klaus seem to have just about the same proportions, both being scrawny and about the same height. Would George oppose the idea of her asking to take his measurements?

The exi girl averts her gaze from his body as he trudges away, feet dragging tensely over the floorboards. In fiction, she has definitely seen two sorts of portrayals regarding vampires—the graceful, coldly tender ones, and then the reckless, apathetic scourges. George definitely leans towards the latter, seeming to have no problem heading up the stairs wearing… well, nothing. It's not like she has a problem with that—she's given him a bath, she's seen him naked before—but she can see clearly from here that his ribs jut out harshly against his skin. Klaus's did the same, and finding that she could compare them so much sort of makes her feel sad for some reason. And embarrassed. She swallows the feeling as she goes and fills a tub of water and soap to let the gown soak in for a while before she scrubs it.

It's at this time she notices that her toast had been moved from the stove to a plate, and the butter is set out neatly right next to it. Astrid glances up the stairs where the teddy boy vanished, sort of thanking him silently. It definitely would have been burned if she waited even a little longer. But even as she bites into it—she might be imagining it, almost in a hypochondriacal manner, but… it tastes a little bit like blood.

Later, she heads up the stairs again to go look for him. “George?” She calls out gently from the doorway, but stays just outside the room. “You stay here, you be good, yes?” And she pauses, thinking for a moment—she won't let him get bored here in case he starts becoming destructive again. “Klaus… gitarre. In there, somewhere. See under z… that,” And gestures to some of the blank divider curtains that were draped lifelessly across one wall of the darkened room. The guitar was a memento from Klaus's father back in Berlin. If she remembers correctly, Klaus had played music prior to studying art, but there was no way in hell she was going to haul a piano up four flights of stairs so Klaus settled on the guitar instead. He hadn't touched it for most of his stay here, but Astrid had heard him change the strings only several days ago, perhaps having felt a little inspired by Guitar George. So surely Klaus wouldn't mind if the teddy boy used it to keep himself occupied while she took care of her job. While she's at it, she'll go scour for that vampire guidebook she's been thinking about. And visit Klaus and Jürgen too! It'll all work out, surely. Astrid almost feels a bit triumphant.

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

Blissfully ignorant of the fact that Astrid was heading out with the intention of acquiring a guidebook to bring home telling her all sorts of clever ways to annoy George, the young vampire murmured in agreement - though he hadn't particularly listened to her plea - and sat himself back down at Klaus's desk. He tried out some drawings himself, taking the charcoal sticks from a pot and breaking four of them before getting his grip right, and being gentle enough to draw. He wasn't one to know how expensive they were- they looked like they'd just come from a burnt-out fire. He did some cartoons of Paul's face and then scribbled over them. Then did some other scribbles, which he was good at and enjoyed; they seemed to release some sort of frantic energy which might otherwise have been taken out on Astrid's furniture. He ground the charcoal stick into the paper and rubbed it and made smeary fingerprint pictures until it crumbled at the end, and he winced at the noise and threw it away from him with a noise of disgust.

Boredom began to sink in as he rifled through Klaus's wardrobe - all that pretentious Parisian stuff he couldn't stand - but he managed to find a very smart silk dressing gown in dark navy which felt nice on his skin. He tied the cord around his waist and double knotted it, seeing as he couldn't bring himself to put on a pair of some other fella's underwear unless it was Paul's and he was pretending he thought they were his so that he didn't have to think about it. After that George found the guitar Astrid had mentioned. He strummed a few chords but it just made him sad and homesick for the club- and then not homesick at all, but ashamed; embarrassed. Dreading having to go back there. So he put the guitar away, a little charcoal smudged around the higher frets. Whilst he was at it, he tried to make amends for the mess he'd made and set straight some of Klaus's things. He dragged a dirty shirt over the floorboards which he spit on to try and get the blood off. And to some extent succeeded. He even organised all of Klaus's art things into right angles and made piles of sketchbooks in order of size. Perhaps he was going slightly mad being cooped up inside all the time.

At around this point he started to feel sick again. That blood felt like it was curdling inside him and he wanted to throw up. He even tried to, but it didn't work. Probably for the best. He hoped he wasn't poisoned. For the rest of the day George lay in bed under his last sheet and drifted in and out of sleep, clutching at the covers every now and then when a new pang of nausea flooded through him. Eventually, though, without realising, he fell asleep. Lying there in the almost neat room by himself - his head pillowed under white, and dressed in a dignified man's dressing gown rather than some 3-month-dirty sweat stained t shirt like at the club - George looked almost just like someone's teenage son. Not a monster living off blood in Hamburg's red light district. Just a boy.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

At some point close to the end of her work day, Astrid uses the studio phone to call Jürgen's flat—as expected, receiving no answer. Then she calls Klaus next, expecting the same… then, someone on the other line does pick up, but without making a noise. When Astrid introduces herself, there is a pause, and then the empty click that follows when the other person hangs up. She bites her lip in frustration, wondering if it was Klaus who answered or his teacher. She doesn't get a good vibe from Klaus's teacher. Maybe it was him.

It's mid-afternoon when she's left work and managed to secure what seems to be a pretty extensive guidebook on vampires from her regular shop, complete with citations to research papers and everything. She takes the long route back home in order to back a round trip to both Jürgen's and Klaus's places, and intends to check up on Jürgen first—only to find that the door to his flat has been sealed off with police tape. Now that's something to be concerned over, but Jürgen himself is nowhere to be found. Maybe she should check with the police. It's an idea at first, only to realize that the police are also after George and though she considers herself to be tight-lipped, Astrid doesn't want to risk giving something away. So maybe Klaus will have some answers.

His flat, thank goodness, is not barricaded with police tape. She didn't see the teacher's car stationed on the side of the street below while she was heading here, so he's probably gone—perfect. Gentle knocking on the door, however, does not seem to coax Klaus immediately. It seems almost forever before it slides open barely more than a sliver, revealing a portion of the artist's gaunt face, his worryingly unkempt hair, and the completely unlit room behind him. When he sees her, he seems surprised, and not in a good way either. One glance down at the book she's clutching doesn't seem to ease him at all.

“What happened to you?!” Astrid stage-whispers, horrified at the state he's in. Klaus is usually so concerned over his appearance and how well-groomed he looks, but now it doesn't look like he's even brushed his hair since the day he stopped showing up at the studio. That, and there's this wild, paranoid look in his tired eyes, only accentuated by the dark shadows festering right underneath them. The exi boy shakes his head, and says nothing for several moments before finally breaking up.

“Jürgen is in the hospital,” He croaks, almost mumbling. “N-no visitors yet. He is unwell…” He averts his gaze, only growing more restless and hesitant with every breath. “… George attacked him, Astrid. I was there. He cut his leg and drank his blood… and he, and… h-he…” He pauses to let the shock settle in, and also to try and swallow the lump in his throat. Astrid's wide eyes only seem to push him further and further back into the darkness of his apartment—such a shallow shelter. He really can't bear this much longer.

“It's all my fault.”

—

On the way home and the way up the stairs, Astrid keeps replaying Klaus's words in her head. _George had fatally assaulted Jürgen?_ Maybe she would have been quicker to believe that a month ago. But the teddy boy has been fairly compliant and even, in his own way, sweet to her lately. It really does seem like he's shaping up to be a good young fellow. She has to talk to him. But at the same time, he might get agitated if she did. Maybe she should just bite her lip for the time being. Yes, she has a guidebook now. She can figure out how to tend to his needs properly and make him calmer, if only it would put everyone at ease. Even Jürgen, once he is well again. He and Klaus have extended their fair shares of benevolence with the guitarist boy, so now it's her turn to do the same.

“George?” She says aloud, leaning on the wall just outside the room, but not entering. “I visit Klausi. He… He is very s-sick, and sad.” _You did something to him, but I don't even know what._ “I… I have a—book. Is vampires. For… for help you, and then, you must visit Klausi too, so he get better. Yes?”

* * *

 

_fangsharrison_

George was woken by the front door opening. He could hear it three floors up and across the other side of the house. If he had really been trying, he might have been able to hear her footsteps as she approached the house. Nothing escaped him. Not a sound, not a living thing. His eyelids peeled open and his pupils dilated. He didn't move a muscle all the while he was listening to Astrid put down her things, take off her coat and take herself up the two flights of stairs. He was silent as a jaguar hiding before an ambush. A predatory behavioural trait and ability which had attached itself to George's makeup.

But, still human in some ways, sometimes, Astrid's words triggered a bloom of panic through George's chest which made him stiffen all over. She had seen Klaus. But… she didn't seem to know- about Jurgen. About what he'd done. Otherwise she wouldn't be here alone; the police would be with her right now. Silently, perhaps irrationally, George sneered at the thought of how pathetic Klaus was not to even be able to tell Astrid the truth. Was he too ashamed of himself for not having done anything to stop it? Or did he just want to wallow in self pity. The stupid artistic type he was. Overly dramatic even in the face of serious tragedy. He lay still on his stomach, making no reply, not even consciously aware of the sinisterly unforgiving mood he was in. In any case the idea of visiting Klaus repulsed him.

The room remained silent for a long time, but George could still hear Astrid's breathing outside. She was listening closely by the door, as if waiting for George to made a big apology. To thank her for whatever favour she thought she was doing him by getting some book. Trying to help him. So far all she'd done was make him ill. Finally he spoke in a low, level and cold-blooded voice - more to the himself than to Astrid. 'It's none of my concern whether 'e gets better or not. If whatever he's sick of can be cured by a visit from me then I don' call that sick.' He started to slowly lower himself back onto his pillow, suddenly enjoying the image of what he'd actually done to Klaus the last time he'd seen the man. George had enjoyed all of what happened on that day. It might even have been worth the stay in the police station. He smirked to himself briefly; added: 'But by all means call me if he dies of a broken 'eart. I'll stand corrected.'

 

 


	15. 141-150

_exiswannabe_

Astrid's English isn't quite strong enough to pick up everything the vampire says; however, tone is a universal tongue and she can almost bite down on the apathy, the smugness, the complete and utter disregard in George's scathing voice. And right away, she begins seething. George may be welcome in her house now, but not that stupid fucking attitude he brings with him all the time. She's been getting soft on him—in essence, aiding a murderer. A cold-blooded, cruel little _murderer_.

“Alright, you listen now…” Astrid throws the door open, heading straight for where the vampire is lying in Klaus's bed. “I—I help you. I take you to inside when it is cold, I help wi'h your clothes, I even… I even give to you Klausi's clothes and bed! And then, oh, and then—you think you have the right to say that ? What is wrong wi'h you?!” Then, without giving him time to conjure a retort, she heads over to the window, grabbing the curtains in fistfuls and tossing them aside. Immediately, the evening sunlight comes streaming into the attic room and a good patch of it hits George, who snarls in pain and jolts under the covers for protection from the burn. Something in the very bottom of Astrid's head screams out in horror at the potential lethality of her own actions, but she pushes it down. It'll take a longer exposure than that to even cause mere temporary damage to a vampire. And, well, if he's going to act like a brute, she has the right to act like a brute right back. “I know what you hurt to Jürgen! And Klaus! And you are come here, you are all of cute and little, but Klaus tell to me. You know what? He still love you, I can see. I do not know why, but he love you—and you are just… you are just so mean…! You are a vampire, it is hard of anyone to love you, because you are _monster._ So when Klausi love you, why you are hurt him?! _Stupid!_ ” She clenches her teeth and points at him, completely livid. She'll never really begin to understand George or why he feels so entitled to act the way he does.

“I shoult jus' let you burn,” The exi girl growls, eyes dark and stark despite the new presence of sunlight. She almost believes herself to be solar-powered as energy from the sun has always been flowing through her veins. George will taste sunlight through her if he dares step any further out of line. “I coult keep you in a _urn_ , at the fireplace. All little dust an' ash. Then you are no trouble, right?” She cocks her chin up, arms folded gravely across her chest. “Tell to me why I shoult-not do that.”

* * *

  _fangsharrison_

The pain wasn't excruciating, but it lingered. George's whole body felt sunburnt and tingling. It had the itch of an all-over rash. He slid down off the far side of the bed in a shroud of sheets and crawled immediately behind the headboard, managing to shift it bit by bit away from the wall until the space was wide enough for him to be able to hide behind. Here the sunlight couldn't reach; yet it didn't make him feel safe again. Astrid was behaving almost madly, and George couldn't reassure himself that she wouldn't really follow through on her threat. He couldn't bring himself to look at her for fear of seeing the answer in her eyes.

Instead George stayed where he was, silent except for the rustle of fabric. He listened to Astrid's words with a lump in his throat, trying not to spiral into shock. Suddenly his heart felt horribly unfortified. She was creating worries George had never considered before, which went straight through his tough facade and into his psyche. Why would she do that? Say such horrible things to him? He felt as if his rights to behave how he should as a vampire had just been taken away. Now he couldn't be a human. He couldn't be a vampire. What was he supposed to do? He couldn't please anyone. He was just doomed to be hated, forever. Astrid got no reply. For a long time George left her waiting in silence, the sunlight streaming in all around her. Then, eventually, he lifted his head from his folded arms and scowled at the bottom of the wall. In a peculiarly quiet, almost pleading voice he spoke; 'Go away.. please.'

Astrid must have given up on him, because at some point as George drifted out of reality, the room fell dark again and the door clicked shut. Hours passed and George hardly noticed them. He was living inside his own head, and it had turned into a very hostile place. The shifts of light through the curtains never reached him, nor the sound of Astrid's footsteps as she came up now and again to try and get a response. She never stayed very long at the top of the stairs. George assumed that she wouldn't want to be near him, so it made sense. He couldn't get his head around what she had said to him. _You're a monster._ George never really got the meaning of the word before. He always pictured it as something you'd find in children's stories. A big wolf or something with six eyes. But it had a real meaning. An older meaning. And Astrid was right. That was the word for people like him. That's what he was. And again she was right - how could anyone love him for all that? He'd never presumed he'd want to be loved. Needed to be loved. He was always focused on other things. But how long was he going to live? How lonely was he going to get, after all that time? He couldn't go on like this relying on the four friends he had, who'd known him before he had become this. They would be gone one day. And he'd be alone.

The next day George stayed in the corner of the room, huddled in darkness, fiddling with the powdered dry blood which had started to flake off his chest and his ankle. But the day after that, when Astrid got home in the early evening, George decided it was time to go down. He padded silently through the house, unnoticed even by the usually creaky floor, and saw Astrid in her living room, lightning the fire. He lingered in the doorframe, scratching the wood with his fingernails to try and calm himself. 'Astrid?' he said softly. 'I'm sorry.'

* * *

  _exiswannabe_

At some point during George's sulking period, Astrid decided to head out to the hospital on her own—not just to try and find Jürgen, but to see if maybe she could get her hands on some blood bags. Even though George has been cranky, she doesn't want to end up with a hungry vampire on her hands so she has to keep him fed. No way is she going back to that slaughterhouse again. It was _disgusting_ , and George ended up becoming ill anyway. It isn't worth it, really. The hospital receptionist is an old lady who makes an off-handed comment on Astrid's short hair—something like _“youth these days”,_ accompanied by a disapproving head shake. The exi ignores it and asks to find Jürgen.

Her fellow photographer is in one of the hospital's far back rooms. It's still relatively tidy so Astrid suspects that up until recently, he was probably in another room with even more intensive care. She doesn't know how much blood George had taken from him, but there are plenty of blood bags in this room too, and—just her luck, some of the used ones still partially full. She doesn't take them yet, instead walking over to the bed and gently placing a hand on Jurgen's shoulder. He's hooked up to a few machines, eyes closed, and doesn't respond but she could swear she can feel him tense up underneath her fingertips. His face is pale, and slightly pained, and there's a bandage wrapped around his neck. The gauze is particularly layered on one spot close to his throat. She suspects the bite marks are right underneath it, and shudders imagining them. _George did this to you._ There's no point in disturbing him now. She'll visit him again in a few days, maybe when he's able to sit up and talk to her on his own. Now she focuses on the blood bags stocked in the room. Jürgen himself had been stealing these in order to keep George fed and now it feels silly of her to do the same—well, silly, but also right in some strange way. She takes as many she can fit in her bag, making sure each one is sealed properly first, and then she whispers goodbye to Jürgen and heads on her way.

—

The german girl scowls slightly when she hears George for the first time in days. After having seen the state her exi friend is in, it's hard to be hospitable. But then her expression softens quickly once more. She turns her head slightly to glance at him, eyes placid now. An apology? Though she's been pushing for one for a while, she hadn't expected to hear that at all, let alone let it be the first thing's she hears from him after their last exchange. It definitely takes a lot of weight off of her shoulders. “See?” She smiles at him, trying not to look tense and using a rod to poke at the coals gently before leaning back and letting the flames grow on their own. “You are okay. Just… do not do that again.” She pauses, kneeling in front of the fireplace for several more moments before gesturing to the bag on the vanity, the one with all the blood inside. “That, for you. Eat…” And almost, out of habit, tells him to heat it up as well. Still, the idea of watching him stirring the blood in a pot over the stove is an amusing one. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad. The rationale that would usually scold her for thinking such morbid things is quiet now, for some reason.

With nothing else to do, Astrid reaches for the vampire guidebook and picks up where she left off. While it's very informative, the book so far has been mostly anti-vampire, describing ways to ward off or even kill the damn things, listing things vampires hate, and what you'd need to capture one. She mostly skims those pages. She knows plenty of their weaknesses already and she doesn't want to give herself any ideas. There's not a lot on what vampires do like, or how you can appease one. She hates that, but it only makes sense—who in their right mind would want to do that? She supposes she's gone a little mad. 

* * *

  _fangsharrison_

At first George let himself feel some semblance of relief. Astrid was no longer shouting, no longer so bitter, and she wasn't looking at him as if he were a monster. Perhaps she may have been talking to him a little patronisingly, but he would take it over the way she'd been last time. However, his sense of brief security didn't last. As he dared to wander into the room and over to look more closely at the bag Astrid had gestured to, he found there was a smell in here that he recognised. It seemed to be clinging to Astrid, though not very strongly, mingled with a clinical disinfectant - but George identified it immediately. He could smell Jurgen. The presence of so much human blood in front of him seemed to dwarf the importance of anything else, and he didn't even get to the realisation that Jurgen was… dead. He only knew that the smell unsettled him and made him turn to look suspiciously at Astrid while her back was turned. Where had she been? What had she been doing? If she'd seen Jurgen why was she now so calm with George in her house?

He tried to cast the thought away. He was so hungry, he didn't think he could wait another minute. Without a word he took the bag into the kitchen, not wanting to eat in front of Astrid now out of shame, and emptied the contents into the largest pot he could find. The sensation was almost good- it was intense in a different way than feeding from a living body was, but in was the same way in which overly concentrated spirits overwhelm you and can make you feel ill. Vodka as opposed to beer. Still, he felt so much better than he had in days as soon as the empty pot hit the table. He sat there, slumped over the side of it in his chair, and simply panted and closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling running through his veins. But soon it was time to go back to Astrid. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gingerly approached the door again. She was sitting on a sofa, reading something. Tracing words with her thumb.

Approaching her slowly, George tilted his head and looked down at the book with a frown. There were odd looking diagrams in there, and it looked much too old to be a photography supplement. He hesitantly reached out, not quite knowing whether he was being rude, and gently took the book from her. Bringing it up to read, he suddenly felt as if he was glued to the spot. One of the pages contained many sketches of what looked like a grotesque dissection. There were labelled drawings of incisors like George's, and he soon spotted a section of case histories on the effects of crucifixes. There was a bit on beheading, a bit on staking, a page dedicated to the most famous and revered vampire hunters from history. Now it made sense to George. She had seen Jurgen's body and now she was bent on George's death, somehow or other. She hadn't turned him in to the police because she wanted the opportunity herself. The blood settling in George's stomach suddenly felt chilled and heavy. He finally looked up from the book, and his eyes locked onto Astrid's with an expression of hurt and betrayal, questioning whether this was really true. He found himself taking two unsteady steps away from Astrid, lowering the book at his side.

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

At first, Astrid frowns in confusion when George suddenly looks uneasy, even hostile. His hackles seem to raise, pupils narrowing in distrust. She doesn't know what it is for a moment but then— _ah_. Of course. The book, as informative as it is, isn't particularly friendly to George's kind. What is it that he saw? Most likely something along the lines of staking or crucifying, or many other crazier and more painful ways to get rid of him. Astrid offhandedly thinks about how tedious some of the methods in the book are, and how one would have to be really paranoid to even consider trying them.

“Oh George, don't give me that look,” She leans against the arm of the sofa, giving him a smile that tries to be soft, reassuring… almost _pleading_ , in a way. Certain is her voice, unwavering, for she knows what she says to be the truth. “I'n not get the book for that. I coult not ever…” Astrid pauses for a moment, but still George bares a snarl. She shakes her head, soft hair glistening golden in the illuminating fire. “I get it for help. It is not a nice book, but—I… I jus' want know more. About you, h-how—to help, you. Learn about you. We are—We can be friends, if you like. An' then you are not are so mean, all the time. An' then Klausi and Jürgen too, when he is better—he's see how nice is you, and not so scaret to you.” Rockers like George don't like hugs, but Astrid still wishes she could give one to him now that he seems so much like a crestfallen, lost child. She's also glad she fed him before letting him look at the book or surely he'd be really pissed off now.

“Anyway,” She says, with gentle joking twinkling in her eyes. “It woult be a stupit me to let you eat before I try hurt you. You are strong, then, and not weak or hungry. I will not hurt you. I let you to stay here, as long as you are need.” A quiet sigh. “You must be nicer now, okay? We must see Klaus, and Jürgen, and show a big sorry to them. Jürgen is very lots of hurt in hospital, I see him, and I th'inks Klaus teacher is more mean to him now, he is so so sad, George. So… do not say mean, to them, now. Yes?”

Then, with enough said, Astrid falls silent for a while, She rests her head on one hand, gazing calmly into the fire. “Come sit,” She invites the vampire closer. “It is warm.”

* * *

 

  _fangsharrison_

A little awkwardly, George closed the gap he had made when he had edged away from Astrid. The tension in his neck faltered and then loosened. He didn’t know why, but he realised he was paranoid. Something must have happened to him; vampires weren’t supposed to paranoid, they were always in control. _GEORGE_ was always in control… or he had been. Up until a few weeks ago. Since then he had lost control three or more times - killed Jurgen, nearly killed Klaus twice, and he wasn’t in control now either. Far from it; just two days ago he’d been incarcerated, on death row, and now he was under the care of someone he hated, simply because he had no other choice. George felt very powerless… but oddly, it didn’t hurt him as much he was certain it should. His ego, whilst a little bruised, hadn’t undergone any agonising damage. If anything, George felt rather safe. Astrid didn’t seem to mind if he wasn’t a ruthless, cool and emotionless killer. She didn’t scorn him for it - she seemed to prefer all the parts of himself which he hated.

George swallowed and bowed his head apologetically. His thoughts were confused. He needed more time to try and think it through. For now he listened to Astrid’s words, only half able to take them in. But then suddenly, he looked up. ‘Jurgen?’ he said. ‘But, I- Jurgen’s… _alive?_ ’ By the uncomfortable look on Astrid’s face, George knew it must be true. His ears became hot with embarrassment and he felt the weight of guilt drop in his stomach. He sat down heavily next to Astrid on the sofa, hanging his head down and clasping his hands self-consciously in his lap. His eyes fell shut, and then a twinge of warmth went though him as he felt his arm brush against Astrid next to him. He hadn’t been this close to anyone sober since he left Liverpool - at least not someone he didn’t then attack and drain all the life from. It was… a surprise, to feel it now. A little comforting.

After a few moments, he looked up again. He wanted to apologise again, but he couldn’t get the words out. ’Um-‘ he started; but that was as far as he got. Instead he stood and went into the kitchen, where he quietly filled the kettle with water and put it on the boil. While it hissed, he put the pot he had drunk from in the sink and scrubbed the red ring from around the edge. When it was clean he left it, and found a mug to make a cup of tea in. His mother had taught him to make tea. She said he did it best out of everyone else in the family.

Astrid was still on the sofa reading when he came back in. He handed her the cup and, when she didn’t take it immediately, looking a little surprised at first, he put it on the table in front of her. ‘If you want me to, I’ll have a bath.’ There was a pause, and George couldn’t help but glance at the cup of tea steaming on the coffee table. ‘And… I’ll see Klaus. Well, I mean, if he’ll see me… you know, since I did- since- I’m a monster.’

* * *

_exiswannabe_

Astrid can’t help but show off a soft spot for George. He’s something like a rebellious teenager—with more lethal potential, she can’t forget that, but all the workings are there. As troublesome he can be, it’s hard not to feel tender of him. Especially now. She glances at the cup of tea, one eyebrow cocked—certainly unable to suppress a small smile before leaning back again to finish up the page. He’s a vampire and maybe he’ll always have to hurt others just to survive… but little things like this, at least, show that he’s capable of doing good too. Perhaps that’s all he really needs to do: give back as much as he takes.

“Bath? Well…” An almost playful smirk makes itself apparent on her face. It’s almost too good to be true! Is he kidding? “Is nice… at least v—wash your hair. Hair have dirt, an’ bloodt. I have hair gel, jus’ style again afterwardt. Danke, George.” Then he mentions Klaus, and the cavity in her chest swells with both hope and sadness. Astrid fail to stifle a sigh and so she runs her pale fingers through her hair before answering to him. “Oh, yes… please. I know—I-i know… Klaus is sadt maybe. Oh, he is so so sadt, George, an’ scared to you maybe. But only you are can help him. He not go outsidte or anyth’ing, I… I’m not know if he eat goodt, or sleep goodt too… an’ he’s teacher is mean maybe, I am so worriedt, George!!” Then, she has to stop herself from rambling anymore. Recollecting her composure, she glances up at the teddy boy. Still, the concern is not leaving her eyes.

“Maybe I shoult bring food to him…” She murmurs, shutting her eyes and just letting the fire’s warmth settle in through her skin for a moment. “He vas so skinny an’ pale. Well… he is skinny an’ pale always. But more badt now. Please help, Georgie. Show to him what is you show to me now—that, you can are goodt too. Even sweet,” And she gestures to the cup of tea.

“Ah,” The exi opens her eyes again and ponders for a moment. “Maybe when Klausi is better feeling, you can go out wi’th him. I let him go to Reeperbahn, an’ listen to your musics. Rock ’n roll… right? Help wi’th… e-ener… gy. Just you are keep him safe. That is all. I trust you, okay?” Klaus, for most of his life, has been a very aloof and withdrawn little souris. Even Astrid has a hard time finding things that excite him but George had managed to do it so quickly, just being the way he is. It’s also risky, but in times of great need such as these… well, she has to let him handle it, right?

* * *

 

  _fangsharrison_

A spark of anger almost tricked George into losing control again, but he suppressed it and merely bit down hard with his jaw as Astrid mentioned Klaus’s teacher. The one he’d thought he finished off, or at least got the message through his thick skull not to disturb Klaus ever again. He let out a long shaky breath and nodded to Astrid, getting up and trying to remember where the bathroom was. As he remembered, he found his gaze settling on the cup of tea again, and he picked it up and tried a second time to hand it to Astrid. This time luckily, she accepted it from him. And he half-smiled and left the room, heading for to the door at the end of the landing upstairs, where he turned on the taps and scouted around for all the German-labeled bath products he could find, theorising that if he just used all of them, then at least one would be the correct potion to wash his hair.

He lowered himself into the water and allowed the taps to gush over his feet, tickling pleasantly, though he would never admit to enjoying being clean. He poured a little of each bottle into the water one at a time, observing the effects they had, and then eyed a pot of grainy stuff on the windowsill, remembering it suddenly from the last time he had been in this room - unwillingly on that occasion. He had vague memories of having behaved like a baby at its baptism. Well, he hated Astrid then. But now, he realised, he felt far less negatively towards her. She hadn’t turned him in to the police, and that was the mark either of an idiot or a resolutely loyal person. Astrid, George had always known, was the latter. It was just a change being on her good side.

The water had soon filled up with swirls of froth and bubbles, and George picked up a comb on the tray attached to the side, submerging his head underwater before rising up again and drawing the comb across his scalp. When it was dry, he would have his quiff back.

After making sure all the caked blood and grime had washed away into the water, as well as cleaning some dirt out of his navel and scraping under his fingernails - he knew Astrid would notice, even if no one else in the entire world did - George got out of the tub and wrapped a towel around his waist. He sat on the edge of the bath for a while with the comb and a tub of hair gel from the sink; using deft-fingered skill and intuition (like a genius) to brush his hair upwards as it dried. Usually Paul would check it for him before he went out anywhere, but he'd have to do without now. His first thought was that he finally looked scary again, without the stupid mop and the bedraggled homeless look. He gave a toothy lopsided grin at the thought, but suddenly he remembered what was missing. His leather jacket. Where had that got to…

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

It’s good tea, surprisingly. A rowdy Reeperbahn teddy vampire would be the last person Astrid expects to be able to a decent cup of tea, but George has managed to exceed her expectations once more. She wonders who taught him. Actually, now that she thinks of it, she really doesn’t know much about his sort of ‘origin story’—things like where he came from and when he became a vampire are unbeknownst to her. She’s never wanted to know so much about a vampire before. Before getting to know him, she figured they were all just primitive scourges out for blood—a common mindset for many people. But here’s George Harrison in the flesh, complete with humor and aspirations and a tentative willingness to grow—things that showed in a truly three-dimensional character. Maybe it’s because he’s young (or at least appears to be). He just hasn’t lived long enough to lose sight of his own humanity the way that old, scarred vampires do. Astrid is almost grateful to have caught him at this time in his life, when he can still be tamed a little. If she could imprint on him, maybe he’ll never have to become a real monster, a savage beyond any help or mercy. She ignores the tiny voice in her head that sneers _‘wishful thinking!’_ at her.

The exi waits a while longer and manages to finish off the cup and by now it’s almost midnight so she trudges up the stairs to check on him, catching him right in the middle of a toothy grin to himself, almost mischievous but otherwise not seeming ill-willed. By the looks of it, he’s slightly embarrassed to see her but otherwise doesn’t complain, mostly just focusing on trying to fix his hair, which is now sticking up but also lopsided. Astrid frowns and glances in the mirror, where she recalls that he won’t show up in it. As much as she likes how the faux-exi-cut frames his face, she’ll let him do his hair how he wants. But she won’t settle for a lopsided DA—it simply won’t do. So she takes the comb and the gel, furrowing her brows in concentration as she gets to work on fixing it. It takes a few minutes and the entire time, she’s thinking about how tedious it must be to try and get one’s hair to stand up again just about every day, and how much more time could one save by just letting it sweep into a chic exi fringe? But she gets the job done and with a nod of approval, lets George know she’s finished.

Now the next issue: clothes. _Oh dear._ She hadn’t thought this one through. Astrid thinks for a moment… George doesn’t have any of his own anymore. What does he wear? Leather jackets and t-shirts and jeans and cowboy boots. He had been vehemently opposed to the exi gear she had given him the last time he was here, so that immediately takes out a lot of the wardrobe. Forget about boots… they don’t look good with her style of dress so she never bothered with buying any pairs. Well, he could wear Klaus’s dress shirt and jeans. Those aren’t anything special, so they should fit. But the jackets… well, Astrid has her own, but there’s no way they’d fit him. Klaus has his, but she had made those using his measurements and though he and George were virtually very similar in build, there would be slight differences that would simply make it strange, like how Klaus’s arms and wrists are thinner than George’s are, and how George seems to have a higher waist than Klaus does. Maybe it will have to do for the time being but over time, the strange refitting will start to become glaringly obvious.

“What if I take your measure?” She almost doesn’t register saying it out loud, but it’s too late—the idea has been put forth. She presses her lips together and thinks. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. The teddy boy cocks an eyebrow at her, looking tentative as she gets up to fetch her measuring tape. Only moments later she’s measuring his waist and shoulders and neck and everything and writing it down on a loose leaf of paper. George is disgruntled for a while, and maybe confused as well, but doesn’t protest unless she accidentally pulls the tape too tightly around him and makes him jerk away.

“I make you new jacket,” She says firmly, looking over the rows of numbers neatly written down the paper. Chances are, unless the police decide to hold an early Christmas and send his old one back to him, he won’t be seeing it any time soon. Astrid almost feels sad at that, but she won’t dwell either. If she works quickly enough, she’ll probably have it finished in a week at the latest. Even sooner if she skips work, but she can’t bear the thought of leaving Reinhart to handle the studio on his own. Lots of companies are making requests for photography to use in adverts and whatnot now that it’s nearing the beginning of the year, so the workload is much. So a jacket, and—oh, underwear. Astrid grimaces. She supposes she’ll work on those too, since it’s the one thing she wouldn’t expect George to share with Klaus. This entire thing is getting to be really exasperating. “Are you sure you can’t wear all Klausi’s clothes…?”

* * *

  _fangsharrison_

Yes, George was sure. And he made a point of it by never wearing the oversized dress shirt she’d given him of Klaus’s unless there was somebody else in the house. The shirttails irritated him and the thing was too white; he felt like a bridesmaid at a wedding. If Mrs. Kirchherr wasn’t there and Astrid didn’t have any guests then George wore only pants and usually went around with a blanket from the back of the sofa around his shoulders like a recently impoverished prince.

But his obnoxiously stubborn behaviour was counteracted by the new ways he was learning to make himself useful, or at least not a nuisance around the house. He took out rats like a professional, especially since it was the only aggression he could release. And he liked cooking simple, not always too successful dinners for when Astrid got home from the studio after work. He put the wrong spices in or none at all, seeing as he couldn’t taste-test any of the things he made. But to his advantage Astrid was usually too tired in the evenings to notice. She had taken to working on his new jacket during the daytime in a room with all the curtains open which deterred George from hanging around in the doorway and watching like a hawk as she sewed, snapping at her that she was doing the collar wrong or making her tell him over and over again that it was definitely a mens’ pattern she was working from, and that the leather was real, and that it wasn’t going to be too short or too long.

When it was finally finished, George found it folded over the back of a kitchen chair in the early evening when he woke up, and Astrid was still at work. There was also a basic cut t-shirt and a pair of black leather trousers which, luckily for George, were pretty tight-fitting seeing as there wasn’t that much leather left over after the jacket. When the door clicked open a few hours later, George was dressed almost exactly like he had been the first time Klaus or Astrid ever saw him. The only difference was the missing boots and pink cap. He bounded into the front hallway as soon as he heard Astrid enter, and pinned her into a corner, grinning to himself as he smacked his hands against the wall on either side of her head. ‘Thank you,’ he said gravely, as if he thought that the more forcefully he said it, the truer it would seem. He kissed her on the forehead and then headed back into the living room, where he had been playing with Klaus’s guitar. He hadn’t been bothered to make any dinner tonight.


	16. 151-160

_exiswannabe_

Astrid notices that the snow has been starting to melt recently, revealing splotches of pavement and dead grass where there was once only an expanse of white—or a filthy slush, if they’re near roads. Even Lady is starting to venture further out into the back garden more often, poking her snout into some of the exposed mud and yapping whenever she sees birds flying overhead, scoping out the city scrapes for the upcoming spring.

George, in all his cheeky charm, is just as mischievous as ever and the exi almost yelps and kicks him in the gut when he slams her against the wall. But he only looks cheerful and almost smug, prancing about in the new threads she had scrapped together for him. Pleased, without a doubt. Those two years of fashion design courses have paid off. Well—as long as she can keep him in a good mood (and make sure that he’s eaten well), the most harm he does is usually only playful, and this time, he at least said ‘thank you’—and to her, that’s progress, isn’t it? With gentle persuasion and a pampered only-child status, Astrid even manages to have her mother sworn to secrecy. Nielsa tries not to look at George for too long. After all, it’s rude to stare.

“I go outside again soon,” Astrid shrugs off her hunger as he picks up the guitar again. The instrument seems to be look more glossy and lively cradled in the teddy boy’s hands—Klaus, for all his curiosity with the thing, is still all too tentative with it, too cautious. George just knows how to let go and make a racket as he pleases. She hears him play and though rock ’n roll is unfamiliar to her, she just knows in her heart that he’s is absolutely made for guitars. It’ll keep him occupied for now. “I must see to Klausi again. Just see he is okay, not hurt, anyth’ing. Stay, be good!”

—

Klaus tries his best to cover up his pains when Astrid shows up uninvited, and he hopes she doesn’t notice that he’s wearing the same clothes from the last time she visited him—but knowing Astrid, it’s probably the first thing she notices. Mushrooms are probably growing in his hair by now since he hasn’t had the strength to wash it completely. Really, a complete wreck is he, and the only reason he’s making progress on his art is because his teacher is forcing him to and otherwise, Klaus would be curled up in bed all day and night just blanketed in a daze, curtains drawn. It seemed at first that the photographer only intended to check on him but before he knows it, Astrid has thrown a scarf over his neck and is now using it to drag him out of the flat and shove him into her car. The exi boy complies and rubs at a bruise on his arm, knowing better than to protest when it comes to Astrid.

George is slumped over on the sofa with the guitar leaning against one side. Klaus nearly screams when he sees him, like seeing a ghost or some horrible creature—because, well… isn’t that what’s happening? No way. No way in hell could George Harrison be having a kip on Astrid Kirchherr’s living room sofa. No way would she let him… right? He… he had _told_ her what happened! What he did to Jürgen! Did she not believe him? But Astrid doesn’t so much as bat an eye now. Klaus fights to steady his breathing. No, not only that, but George is supposed to be in the police’s custody. _Dead_ , even. How had he gotten here, then? Klaus almost hates him right now. Hates him for defying all the odds. He looks so deceitfully peaceful and Klaus hates him even more. Hates him, even, for suddenly bringing back the rushing feeling of tenderness Klaus gets whenever he looks at him. But his hair looks so soft and strokeable right now…

 _Just while he’s asleep. If he’s asleep, he can’t hurt me._ Before he could stop himself, Klaus is sitting next to George’s limp body and running his fingers through the gelled-up hair, casting Astrid forlorn looks just so she can see how pained and conflicted he is now because he’s reliving these recent nights when he’d lie awake in bed, cursing himself for having caused so much suffering and death by being naive towards George, and now she has the audacity to set him up for it all over again. It wasn’t like he was ever really getting over the guitarist in the first place but now there’s a raging war inside his head. Despite all things, Klaus was the one who ultimately turned the vampire in to the police. He thought he murdered George, but his second chance is right here underneath the strands between his fingertips. Shouldn’t he feel thankful?

* * *

_fangsharrison_

George had fallen asleep fairly quickly after Astrid left. He was still catching up from all those sleepless days and found himself very drowsy as the sun got warmer and the wind chill gradually dropped. He had folded the leather jacket on the sofa arm as a pillow, but with one hand reached out he still grasped it in his fingers protectively.

Perhaps an hour and a half later he slept through the click of the front door, the footsteps in the hall and the deflating of the sofa cushion as somebody sat down next to him. Klaus was able to stroke George’s hair for a while until the vampire noticed, and one eye hesitantly opened just to a small slit. Groggily he felt the fingertips threading through the soft un-gelled parts of his hair and wondered whether Astrid did this to everyone while they were asleep. But when he made a soft noise and started to shift and turn to look, the fingers suddenly stopped; the hand drew away skittishly. George rolled over onto his back and puffed his chest out to stretch, propping himself up on his elbows and then opening his eyes to see -

His mouth snapped shut and his eyes widened. Klaus Voormann looked just as surprised as he was, and before he knew it George had fallen from the sofa as he struggled to distance himself from the conflicted looking exi. His knees hit the floor and the leather jacket fell too as George scrambled back to his feet and darted away, standing awkwardly a metre or so from where he had woken a few seconds ago, and staring with a frown of dumb confusion and worry at Klaus. He looked to Astrid questioningly, asking for an explanation in silence as he couldn’t find any words to say. His stomach growled, and he had a slight headache from standing up too quickly. What little blood he had at the moment wasn’t getting to his head very fast. He couldn’t work out whether he should be glad to see Klaus - they had been something like friends once, yes. But Klaus had called the police. Klaus had made them take George away, to kill him. He should hate the exi. But there was a small, hesitant part of him which was excited to see him again after so long here with no company other than Astrid and that stupid dog.

* * *

_exiswannabe_

The moment George begins to stir, Klaus withdraws to the other side of the couch. With blue eyes wide and brimming with fear, he stares at George for a long moment, trying to keep his breathing steady as he wraps his arms around himself, finding no words he could say in the moment. He hadn’t anticipated him to wake up so soon…

George retreats a few feet away and Astrid glides over to Klaus’s side. She takes him by the arm reassuringly and whispers words in his ears—in German and meant to be comforting, but the tension won’t release from the exi’s stringy muscles. Like a mouse frozen in place so as to not draw the attention of predators, he simply can’t free himself of his own wariness. It’s pathetic. He only jumps again when Lady makes her way into the room and starts yapping at George so Astrid is forced to leave so she can shoo the dog off into the hall. With this, he starts moving again, but only slowly, and only with cautious little twitches.

“Don’t hurt me,” he pleads, and with only such a meek voice slightly hoarse from all the crying and from having barely eaten in the past two weeks—thinking gravely about how George will soon grow eager for revenge; to get back at Klaus for having the police haul him off. And then—and then he’ll do to Klaus just what he did to Jürgen… no, worse. It isn’t like the exi believes himself to be worthy of continued life but there’s fear that comes with death. He had seen the way Jürgen had convulsed in shock as he bled out underneath his attacker, and how his eyes had glazed over in his trauma, and how his hair had been completely soaked in blood. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t hurt me. I’ll do anyth’ing.”

Astrid returns only a moment later, yawning as she goes to check on Klaus and George. She senses the fear in both of them and decides to stay in the doorway, keeping an eye on them in case the reconciliation goes wrong—and she prays that the worst won’t happen. She doesn’t want to have to call the police on the teddy boy. She doesn’t trust the Hamburg _polizei_. They’ve had him in their clutches before and they surely won’t let him get away as easily again. And she put so much effort into taking him under her wing and caring for him, despite his bad behavior and the creature he really is. She sees he’s capable of being good and now Klaus needs to see it too, or his eyes will never be dry again.

* * *

_fangsharrison_

The sound of Klaus’s voice was enough to bring that familiar feeling back in waves. He sounded so broken, so helpless. The voice of pure terror; pleading for his life. How monstrous must George be to inspire that in another living thing… he felt guilt tighten like rope around his middle. He remembered what it had felt like in the basement, when he had given in to every urge he had and behaved like an vicious, gruesome animal. But even thinking about it, George realised suddenly how different he was from that now. He felt more like himself from before he had become a vampire, though only a little, and he had no desire to attack anyone in the room (bar perhaps the dog) - despite his hunger. But he didn’t know how he could demonstrate that to Klaus now. He couldn’t begin to expect Klaus to be able to believe it; he wasn’t even 100% sure he believed it truly himself. But he wasn’t going to hurt the man. That much he knew for certain.

He moved forward towards Klaus, planning just to talk, or not knowing what he planned to do really, but Klaus flinched away in an instant and George felt a twist of embarrassment in his stomach, and stopped still. He looked down at the floor for a moment, and then back up to the two friends. ‘Um… I’m- sorry. I’ll just go.’ He cautiously leaned down to pick up his leather jacket and then started to walk away. As he reached the threshold he turned back with an apologetic look. ‘I won’ hurt you. Anymore,’ he said softly. ‘I promise.’ He hardly expected his words to have any impact, let alone be believed, but he didn’t want to disappear without saying anything to Klaus. He might never see him again.

Out in the hallway it was starting to get dark. The light had faded from the lacy curtains by the front door and the floorboards were coated with shadows. He went to the far end, near the back door to the garden, and sat opposite the stairs with his back against the wall and his elbows resting up on his knees. He tried not to listen to any voices from in the living room. Half because it wasn’t his business and half because he knew he might not like what they said. But a few seconds later Lady the dog came pattering downstairs and immediately made for George, bounding down the corridor until she reached him and then pawing at his legs and jumping up, jaws snapping as if in warning. Warning him not to try anything and hurt Astrid. He sighed and gritted his teeth as he reached out a hand and lazily attempted to get to Lady’s head to pat her, though it was a risky game. He let her nip and mouth his fingers until they stung all over and there were little pink marks on his hand. ‘Yeah, you don’ like me… I know. I got it,’ he muttered as she stood on her hind legs, her forepaws on his knees to try and get up high and nip at his face. He pushed her back down and she resumed the attack on his lower arm. He simply let her, and managed a quick ruffle of her ears whilst she scratched at him.

 

* * *

 

_exiswannabe_

Klaus pulls his knees up against his chest and hugs his legs tightly. Feeling numb all over and still somehow aching so much, he simply watches George leave and in his heart there’s a burning voice that screams and begs for the vampire to come back— _don’t leave me like this_ —but the exi has no strength to give it life. But he was wrong—George hadn’t attacked him. George even apologized. But then again, how can Klaus be sure that he’s being sincere this time around? Maybe it’s just a ploy, a way for the teddy boy to trick him and Astrid into thinking he’s behaving for now but as soon as her back is turned, he’d go and shred the poor boy into pieces. Klaus presses his shaking hands against the side of his head. He feels so paranoid now and he can’t bring himself to feel good at all. His stomach is hollow and his heart is hollow and his head is full but only of bad things. _“Why did you bring me here?!”_ He suddenly jerks his eyes up to whimper at Astrid, who treads over to him and tries to hold his arm, except she puts too much pressure on his bruise and causes him to flinch away. So instead, she rubs his back gently. It feels incredibly good—human touch has eluded him for what seems like ages now—but it’s not enough.

“George came here a week ago. He was all beaten up and covered in blood, so I had to help him…” Astrid shakes her head a bit; she doesn’t like to admit to being naive at all but it’s evident that she couldn’t bring herself to turn George away, even despite knowing what he’s capable of. “He’s good, Klausi. Really. I got a book and I learned more about him so I could help him. He helps around the house now, and doesn’t cause any real trouble anymore as long as I feed him. It’s easy; I can go to the hospital and get the used blood packets. They won’t be finishing them anyway, so I will.” Klaus blinks in surprise. Wasn’t that what Jürgen had done to help George? And the ending of which is what led to… well. “Please, Klausi. You can’t be sad forever. I know it’s bad, but I’ve been checking on Jürgen too and he’s getting better. Everyone is _alive_. Things will be better from now on but you have to get better too.”

But Klaus leans into the side of the couch, responding only with a deflated mumble. “Well,” Astrid sighs back. “I guess that’s more like the old you. Stay here.” She heads out into the hall, turning the corner to see Lady harassing George. With gentle shoving, she tries to shoo her away again and shakes her head, scanning his body subtly to look for signs of injury or teeth marks. Lady still persists though, so Astrid holds her back by the scruff as she snarls and snaps at the guitarist. “Sorry, George. She is not all so mean to people, usual…” A quick glance at the door she came from exposes some of her concern, and then she turns back to him. “Klaus is more fear still. No cry yet, but still. I—We must help to him.” And she kneels down in front of him to think for a little bit.

“I know,” She suddenly says, brushing a hand through her hair. “I will go out now and get bloodt for you, and you can do cook someth’ing for Klaus. Klaus do not eat much, I th’ink. So skinny now, and pale.” _Like you,_ she has to stop herself from saying so as not to be rude. In any case, maybe a bit of a meal will help Klaus ease back into George’s company. She hopes he isn’t opposed to the idea. Does George even want Klaus back at all? At certain times, it did seem like he enjoyed having him around—maybe more like a plaything than a friend of equal status, but Klaus didn’t seem to mind much before what happened to Jürgen. It made him happy, in spite of everything else. Klaus was rarely happy otherwise. She needs to be able to bring him back to that, and so earnestly awaits George’s response.

* * *

_fangsharrison_

George watched Lady scamper off with dull eyes, and then looked up to Astrid, letting his hands hang limply over his knees. It was uncomfortable at best hearing about how sick Klaus was, all because of him. He wished Astrid hadn’t brought him here, it was just bringing back all the memories of before. Unsettled, violent and volatile memories of how he had been. Now he felt a lot calmer, but the sight of Klaus was uprooting this a little. He was almost annoyed by Klaus’s response to him. As if no one could possibly believe a monster like him could change. Well, if that’s what Klaus thought, why should George bother with making the effort to try and prove him wrong? Let him believe what he liked.

But then, as he looked nervously into Astrid’s eyes, he saw how earnestly she was asking him to do this. There was a pleading in her expression, in her hesitance; she didn’t want to upset George, but she was desperate for her friend back. And George was the only one who could do that. He glanced up at the doorway he had come from before, where Klaus was still cowering. Well, he thought with a silent sigh, it was hardly much in comparison to all Astrid had done for him these last few days. He owed it to her, if no one else.

With a single nod, he agreed to her idea, and said nothing else as she left to go and tell Klaus what was happening. Then, once she had closed the front door behind her, George got up and reluctantly headed into the kitchen, passing by the living room door but not daring to look inside. He could have taken a quicker route through that room and into the kitchen, but he didn’t think walking in on Klaus as soon as they were alone together would send the right message.

There was already a large pot on the stove, and all they had at the moment were vegetables and some stock in an upside down butter dish, because the small containers were in a cupboard too close to the sunny window and George didn’t dare go near it to get the right utensils. There was also some leftover milk divided into three egg cups, and a half potato wrapped up in a tea cloth. As George cooked he hoped that the rising smell would reach Klaus and he would realise that George wasn’t doing anything sinister in there. The soup smelled good; so much so that George’s stomach grumbled again, as if it still wasn’t aware of the new diet it lived by. He hoped Astrid would be back soon. For a while he stirred the simmering pot, flecks of hot liquid spitting onto his t-shirt every now and again as he refused to wear an apron, until it started to boil and he placed the lid on top and sat down at the kitchen table to haphazardly set out cutlery and a bowl for Klaus. When this was done he picked up a pad of paper Astrid had left with a used shopping list on it, and started to draw a picture of his old guitar. He had found guitars were the only thing he could draw from memory. They were much easier than people. When the pan started to bubble over he quickly got up and continued stirring, turning down the heat with one hand whilst froth coated the other as he tried to keep the lid in place.

* * *

_exiswannabe_

Klaus watches Astrid leave again. She hadn’t told him what she’s doing but he has to trust her because he can’t trust anyone else. He stays in the living room for a while longer and Lady comes to join him, curling up in front of the couch after having already worn herself out from clawing at George. Well, he could trust Lady. He reaches down to try and pet her, managing a couple friendly ruffles before he starts to ache too much and has to retract into his original position. Of course, now that he’s up and about more today, everything’s sore from having been totally stagnant for the previous weeks. His body will have to get used to that but he can’t pay it much more mind as the scent of something cooking wafts into the room. Klaus frowns; hadn’t Astrid left already? But then he realizes George is in the kitchen. He’s suddenly met with pangs of hunger and his hollow stomach is starting to get the best of him, now that he’s regained enough energy to care about being hungry at all. Klaus thinks about the all-too-familiar way vampires start to behave primitively when faced with starvation and he wonders if a human could ever be driven to that point. He knows humans could be so, so much more savage than any vampire, given the motive—forget hunger. Klaus gulps and slides off the sofa slowly, limping towards the kitchen. He should probably eat before he starts thinking about it too much.

For a few minutes, the exi only hovers in the doorway, but George still tenses up as he emerges. The ted doesn’t turn around to look at him at all but he could probably sense him somehow, maybe by smell or by hearing—senses that are probably heightened in vampires. Astrid would know now, with that big fancy book of hers. Klaus stares for a few more moments before averting his gaze suddenly, embarrassed for staring. In any case, he notices next that the curtains aren’t drawn and the sunlight is filtering in. It’s above the house at the moment so it doesn’t cast far into the room, but it would be a hazard if George were to step a little too close. With a concerned frown, he slinks over to the other side of the room—mostly keeping against the walls—and goes to draw the curtains. The room darkens immediately, not by much, but enough so that it might put George to a bit more ease, and maybe he’ll see that Klaus is trying to do little things to help him too. It’s hard for the artist to read his body language but he does seem slightly relaxed now. After several more minutes, he reaches for a ladle to scoop some of the soup into the bowl he had set out, then looks at Klaus expectantly who just responds with an almost stupid look back. “For me?” He mumbles, tilting his head slightly. George says something in English that Klaus doesn’t pick out, but he knows he just sounds gently sarcastic. Then the ted almost looks ashamed for being snappy and turns his attention back to the stove. But Klaus doesn’t feel as damaged as he would have been an hour ago.

He’s in the middle of picking at his food with the spoon when the front door opens again and there is Astrid, clutching a bag in her hands. She calmly hangs it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, getting George’s attention before gesturing to the bag lightly. Klaus is curious as to what’s inside, but doesn’t say anything. The photographer just looks relieved that things haven’t gone sour while she was away, so he’ll spare her the extended trouble and just continue to alternate between playing with and actually eating his food.

* * *

_fangsharrison_

It felt almost domestic, this strange scene which had come about almost by accident after Astrid left. George was very slightly insulted by the way Klaus picked at the soup, separating the ingredients idly with his spoon instead of swallowing it down in one gulp like George would have loved to do - and then go back for more until the whole pot was empty. But the exi just sat there looking sorry for himself. Still, George didn't let himself react. He was determined to be on his best behaviour; pretending as if he was entertaining the parish priest or someone his mother held in great respect and importance. That had only happened a few times, but they were the only times in George's life when he had had to restrain himself from acting like a savage. All other occasions it was almost expected of him.

At some point George came and sat down at the table opposite Klaus, and with nothing to do he simply leaned on his elbow and scratched at the wood idly, his mind too preoccupied and nervous to be conscious of the fact that Astrid wouldn't like it. He listened to the clink of Klaus's spoon against the thick German bowl. Then he spotted his little drawing and almost smiled at his strike of genius, hitting upon a way to break the silence. He took his elbow off the table and slid the scrap of paper containing dodgy linework and juvenile shading in all the wrong places across towards Klaus. 'I copied some of your stuff. Pretty good eh?' he said as if it was the greatest compliment in the world and just maybe it would be enough for Klaus to magically forgive him and start blushing with excitement, all past offenses forgotten. But Klaus didn't react quite in this way. Before George could be disappointed, however, the door opened and Astrid appeared. George got up immediately and then remembered that he was trying to be subtle about his being a vampire and acted as if he wasn't so very excited by whatever was in the bag. But he couldn't help himself from showing Astrid a brief but genuine smile, almost forgetting the fangs would give away his veneer of innocence. It was difficult to hold himself back and ignore the bag for the time being. He acted exactly as if he were waiting for permission, albeit from himself, and sat on the very edge of his chair, jiggling his leg under the table like he did unconsciously when he was playing guitar onstage. 'Astrid?' he prompted after a few more excruciatingly boring minutes of watching Klaus slowly eat. 'He smells funny. Maybe he should have a bath.' _Maybe you two should go somewhere else for a while so I can inhale that bag of disgusting blood._ Klaus looked like he was nearly finished anyway. If Astrid was going to insist he finish the whole bowl they'd be here till George was the only one left alive.

* * *

_exiswannabe_

Klaus stares at the drawing as he puts the spoon in his mouth, making a small noise. His teacher would scoff at the sight of it and the way it looks so sloppy. But Klaus pores over all the little details and flaws alike, taking in everything through his vision. The shading is wrong and done in something a lot like completely misdirected cross-hatching, a method that Klaus himself had been trying to perfect a while ago, before he lost his motivation to do any art at all. The lines are amateurishly sketchy, given away by the way they’re drawn like clusters of tentative, short hairs rather than long, graceful strokes. But the details are all there—the little screws in the guitar’s panels and the knobs and the metal plates. From memory, he guesses. That’s really impressive, to be able to draw something like an electric guitar from memory. George must really like his guitar.

Astrid glances at George and blinks a few times before realizing what he’s trying to say. Of course it’s easier for George to watch Klaus eat, but the other way around would do no good for the poor exi’s recovery. She slides over and gently nudges Klaus out of his chair. The boy seems slightly offended at George’s words, but doesn’t make an attempt to deny them because he knows it’s most likely true. He’s showered probably once or twice at most in the past two weeks, and has barely washed his hair. George, for some reason, doesn’t smell of sweat or alcohol at all, the way he did when Klaus had first met him back in the Reeperbahn. He suspects that it’s Astrid’s doing. She, in all her motherly glory, would never stand to let anyone live in her house without bathing.

So the two of them head upstairs, letting George stay by himself in the kitchen. Astrid goes to turn on the tap for Klaus, then leaves him to his own devices for a while. She heads to her room, grabbing a slip of paper. On it, she jots down an order for another black leather jacket. Now that she has George’s measurements and knows for certain he’s pretty happy with what he got, she can just drop off the order at the tailor’s and pick it up later. Now would be a good time to fashion together a second jacket—it’s always good to have at least two pairs of clothing. She sets the paper aside and goes back downstairs to check on the guitarist.

* * *

_fangsharrison_

By the time Astrid came back down, George had poured out the two blood bags into another large cooking pot and taken a mug from the rack. He dipped it into the vat of red liquid and filled it up as if it were just a cup of soup like Klaus had had. He’d already filled up on three mug-worth and was feeling a lot more active. He turned around to look at the slim, blonde figure of Astrid appearing in the kitchen and a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. He didn’t know why she had felt the need to bring Klaus here today, nor still why she had decided not to tell George first, but the rich blood in his veins had put him in a less confrontational mood and he didn’t want to upset her. The only thing that still bothered him was how stubbornly Klaus was keeping his distance from George. He had almost forgotten how vile he had been the last occasion Klaus had seen him; and he had never had the experience of sheer blood-curdling terror that came with being a victim to him when he was at the height of primal hunger. It was difficult for him to understand why people were so alert, so jumpy and nervous around him. He simply always forgot.

‘Thank you for this stuff,’ he said, referring to the half-eaten meal in front of him. It wasn’t the same as hunting; but it was keeping him sane. But then, looking down at his crimson-tipped fingers smearing the mug, he let his smile falter. ‘Did ‘e say anythin’? I’m not gonna eat him, y’know. I don’ want want to hurt him. I like him. The lads liked ‘im too. I just… I can’t remember exactly what I did to Jurgen. But if he wanted me _dead_ afterwards… I mean…’ George couldn’t quite organise his thoughts. He was annoyed at having broken Klaus, it seemed a shame for him to never get better. Just when George was starting to think he was alright. ‘I hope he sleeps up there. I’ll stay quiet.’ He started digging at the tabletop again with his nails, licking his lips as he stared at the smudge of red on the rim of his cup.


	17. 161-169

_exiswannabe_

_You can’t remember what you did to Jürgen?_ Astrid tenses at that. How could he have forgotten? It was so gruesome. So intense. She hadn’t been there, if course, but it was obviously enough to scar Klaus. And how incredulous it is that the vampire just talks about it with such a drawl in his voice, so nonchalantly, as if discussing some bad weather from the other day instead of the time he almost murdered one of her best friends. How could he be so careless? The day Astrid had scolded him for being the same way, he had cowered under the bed for a while. She thought then that he had been thinking about his actions and was truly sorry. But she’s quickly reminded of Lady’s puppy days, when she had a go at the furniture and left all the nice dressers and table legs with scratch marks and then Nielsa would reprimand her terribly, and the little dog would hunch downwards with her tail between her legs. Astrid always had the feeling that Lady never actually understood that what she did was wrong, and the only reason she’s stopped scratching furniture is because she’s afraid of the punishment. Perhaps George is something like that. Maybe she should scold him again—but the idea fades off quickly. She’s too tired and doesn’t feel like it would help much anyway.

“Be patient wi’th Klaus,” She just says firmly, shaking her head. “He get better. Slowly! Don’t force him fast.” Casting a lingering glance to the staircase, she lets go of a sigh and runs small fingers through her hair. She’s usually paler than Klaus is but by now she’s glowing compared to him. “Thank you anyway. I want him sleeps now. Properly, not sadt anymore. Then, I sleeps too. Jus’ quiet you, an’ is okay. We talk more tomorrow, yes?”

So she heads off, reminding George to clean up the cups before gliding up the stairs. Klaus is already finished with his bath, looking much better than before, but still tired. Astrid sees him in the attic, staring curiously down at his work desk. He’s fiddling with pieces of broken charcoal. Surely he couldn’t have broken them himself? He’s much too gentle with his own tools. Unless… of course. _George._ With an endearingly frustrated sigh, she tells Klaus to finish up and get to bed—get a proper rest for once. Then she makes her way back to her own room. For a few more minutes, she lies awake. There’s still a lot of work to be done, isn’t there? The truth is… she has no idea how she’s going to help Klaus get back to his old self. George is here, but it doesn’t feel like anything that can be done really works—and if George continues to behave unempathetically, then Klaus won’t respond well regardless. Maybe he’ll never really get better. Why didn’t George see those consequences? He had no right to be upset with the exi’s sadness when he was the one who caused it in the first place. It’s a cruel way to put it, but it’s true. How would Jürgen feel, if he were here? Astrid is asleep before she has the time to give it any further thought.

* * *

_fangsharrison_

The house was dark by the time the shuffling of footsteps upstairs fell quiet, signalling that Astrid had gone to bed. George had a plan. An escape plan - escaping from having to apologise to Klaus using words or emotions. It wasn’t a great plan, but George liked it a lot whenever he thought about the alternative. He swallowed one more cupful of the blood and then wiped his mouth, getting up from the table and going to the front door. When he tried it, it was locked. He should have asked Astrid for the key before she went to bed. Well, there had to be another way out… George poked around various rooms… but there wasn’t. However the window set into the back door was very thin and old, and covered in grime around the edges, making the outer frame weak. He had to get out. The window would have to go. He put his fist through it as quickly as he could, holding the smashed pieces in his hands and trying to catch the smaller bits that fell. Luckily the sound of the window breaking didn’t seem to travel well; the pieces hit the grass outside almost soundlessly. He stopped to listen for any movement upstairs; but all was relatively quiet. Hoisting himself up, he wriggled through the broken window and landed on his feet on the other side. The night air felt wonderful on his skin. The moon made his eyes glow. And even now he was so silent without any effort that the wildlife in the tiny garden paid no attention to his appearance at all.

He didn’t disturb the quiet of the backstreet as he wandered along down the middle of the road, hands stuck into the pockets of his leather jacket, wind smoothing over the slick pompadour of his quiffed back hair. He grinned to himself as he wandered along. Perhaps he should pay a visit to the club tomorrow night. They were probably too worried to file a missing persons report; the police would no doubt send them all back to England in disgrace.

Once George reached the nearest row of shops, his plan set into motion. He broke easily into a corner shop where he filled a brown bag with eggs (they didn’t have any at Astrid’s), icing powder, sugar and a packet of cigarettes. He stuck one between his lips and lit it just before he left, feeling like the freest person in the world. He should be dead right now, or locked up forever. But that was never going to happen. He even forgave Klaus for trying to make it. It was merely naive of him to assume George could be killed by a human. He had plans for album covers Klaus could draw. He didn’t get Stu’s weird style, but Klaus’s he liked. He’d liked the drawings he’d found of them performing at the Kaiserkellar. He hadn’t even noticed Klaus doing them at the time. He drew George exactly the way he himself wanted to look. And without the aid of mirrors, it was a great reassurance. And he was good at guitars, which Stu wasn’t, in any sense.

Next George spotted a pet shop and liberated a large sack of dog food which he propped heavily over his shoulder before heading on down the road. His last stop was a tiny art shop just on the corner before Astrid and Klaus’s art school. It was very delicate and cramped inside, and once inside via an easily smashable back window, George knocked over a few rows of display with his shoulder. He paid no heed, though, simply continued to snoop around until he located what looked like the same charcoal he had used in Klaus’s room before. He took as many boxes as he could fit in the paper bag, which was about a dozen or so, and then left. When he returned to the house Lady was up, and he had to shove the sack of food through the window hole first to distract her from barking. The plan worked, and she had soon found her way into the sack and didn’t disturb George at all as he slunk past her into the kitchen, too busy crunching away at the pellets inside.

George finished the cake at close to six o’clock, after one previous failed attempt. It sat on a plate on the table, very thickly iced in blue and scrawled across shakily was the word ‘SORRY’, below it in smaller writing, ‘Klaus’. It was perfect. Probably disgusting, but a lot better than having to let Klaus talk about his feelings whilst George sat and listened and then apologised repeatedly after every sentence or so. He made sure the kitchen was tidy, no trace of mess anywhere, and then went upstairs, meandering through the dark until he was inside Klaus’s room; the cake in his hands and bag of charcoal under his free arm. He emptied out the latter onto Klaus’s desk and then settled himself in to wait. It couldn’t be much longer until Klaus woke up… and when he did, he’d see the cake there on his bedside table. But Klaus didn’t wake up. George waited eagerly, trying to glimpse at Klaus’s face to see whether his eyes were opening every few minutes from where he was sat on the desk chair, staring across the room until his own eyes started to drift shut. His arm fell limply down and he rested his cheek against the chair-back. Exhaustion enveloped him, and he was asleep before he could hear the sound of Astrid padding down the stairs for breakfast.

* * *

_exiswannabe_

Lady is awake already, Astrid sees. The dog seems very happy, but also unusually sluggish. She frowns and reaches down to pat her head. She’ll let her out into the garden later, but tea first of all things. So she sets about making that, trying to ignore the fact that George had neglected to wash his cup from the night before. Meanwhile, Klaus is barely stirring in his attic room. Even though he’s spent a worryingly long time in bed lately, it’s been a while since he’d been able to sleep this well. He really doesn’t want to get up at all. Maybe Astrid won’t mind if he sleeps into the afternoon. He hasn’t any idea that George is positioned nearby, or that he’s expecting something from him. Sleeping just feels so good right now.

But he forces himself eventually, mumbling incoherently as he sits up in his bed and blinks out moisture from his eyes. Taking some time for his vision to adjust, Klaus looks to his left and sees the cake. There’s shaky teal lettering scrawled over the top and in both his drowsiness and dyslexia it takes him several moments to be able to make out what it says. _Sorry… Klaus._  It’s almost funny now. He has to stop himself from chuckling. But this is more than what he’d expect from someone like George. Where would someone like him even get cake, or know how to make it? He’s full of surprises. He glances forward now and sees the guitarist himself basking in the shadows, teethy eyes closed in his own sleep, beautiful but not hostile—the side of him Klaus always pined to see. It’ll be gone again when he wakes up. But it’s good now, to just live in the moment and let things exist as they are. So Klaus doesn’t try to touch him yet.

Slowly sliding out of bed with a long stretch, the exi makes his way over to to his desk. A pile of charcoal stick packages were scattered across the surface. He picks one up—oh, _t_ _hank goodness._  It’s a variety pack. He’d have nothing to do with fifty of the same kind of charcoal. He looks at George again. _Did you do this?_  He asks silently. _Why?_

But he realizes why. It’s his way of apologizing. Showing it and being non-confrontational about it, because he wouldn’t want to just talk about it like most people Klaus knows. Making it a little easier, regardless—and the exi is grateful for that. It won’t cancel out what he did to Jürgen, or what he did to Klaus right afterwards, but he knows for certain now at least that the ted doesn’t want to hurt him now. The artist shuffles over quietly, leaning down to run his fingers through the hair on the back of George’s scalp. “Thank you.”

* * *

_fangsharrison_

George was just starting to dribble when he felt the hand on the back of his head and stirred groggily. He let himself stay in the comfortable position for a few more moments - or what his body had tricked itself into thinking was comfortable after he didn’t move from it for four hours. There was someone hovering over him, but it didn’t smell like Klaus. Klaus wreaked of bed-sweat and god only knew what else. It smelled more like Astrid. That soft rose-smelling soap. He rubbed an itch in his hair on the chair back and then opened his eyes and saw a pair of bare feet on the floorboards next to him. Men’s feet…

He looked up at Klaus, confused. Had his cake… worked? The artist wasn’t cowering in a corner of the room, nor was he trying to throttle George, and he didn’t have any indication of guilt on his face like he might have just phoned the police- again. George didn’t even think to stop him from playing with the threads of hair. He was going to have to wash today anyway, or Astrid would see the tiny scratches and bits of twig in his hair and realise he’d broken out, burgled all this stuff and been the one who vandalised her window. In fact, he should probably do that before he went downstairs. ‘Klaus?’ he asked. ‘Would ye stop that with me hair?’ When Klaus stopped he let out a long sigh and slumped back against the chair, staring at the piles of charcoal. Then glancing behind him and looking at the cake. ‘I really mean it, y’know.’ He gestured to the iced message. ‘An’ it’s not poisoned or anythin’ either. According to Astrid’s fuckin’ book, vampires aren’t intelligent enough to use ploys like poison anyway…’ he said snidely.

He got up and went to pick up the cake, before giving it to Klaus on its plate. ‘Why don’t you take it downstairs. I’ll be there in a few, just tell Astrid I’m still sleeping would ye?’ He tried to go towards the door himself, and lingered there on his toes, hoping Klaus would follow and he could then dart off to quickly wash himself.

* * *

_exiswannabe_

By now, Astrid has discovered the broken window on the back door as well as the torn up, partially-devoured back of dog food right next to it—and a very happy little Lady wagging her tail behind her. She’d be livid if that window wasn’t an old or weak one to begin with but now she’s more concerned for George and, in turn, Klaus—so she makes a sprint for the staircase and opens the door to the attic. It’s Klaus who meets her at the bottom of the stairway, nearly being crashed into. The exi girl looks him up and down—doesn’t seem hurt, thank god. “Why do you have cake?” Her voice is a stage whisper and one eyebrow is cocked. He returns her gaze dumbly for a moment before breaking into a soft smile.

“George gave it to me. I think he did it last night.” Klaus maneuvers past her and heads down the hall to slide the platter onto the kitchen counter. Astrid follows and tilts her head, disbelieving in his calmness. But it’s all there—his gait, and the way his head is held up a little higher than yesterday. _Are you serious? George won you over with a cake?_ But she keeps her mouth shut. As long as he’s happy, but…

“He broke the window,” Astrid shakes her head while Klaus scours for a knife to cut the cake with. It might just be his sleepiness but he doesn’t even falter when she speaks. “Where is he, Klaus?” The souris juts his head towards the staircase before focusing back on trying to cut evenly. “Upstairs,” He mutters, almost to himself, albeit looking rather pleased for some reason. “Sleeping.”

“Mummy is going to be so angry,” The photographer groans and positions herself in one of the dining chairs. “I have to schedule a repair now…” But a part of her lets out a deep breath in relief. At least George is safe upstairs. For a few minutes, she had thought he had broken out and could have gotten himself hurt on the glass as well. The thought worries her. “Are you okay with him now? He’s not hurting you, right?” Klaus just casts a small smile at her and nibbles into a piece of the cake.

* * *

_fangsharrison_

Though the broken glass had scratched George’s arms and shoulders a little, no blood had been close enough to the surface to have been drawn, and thus after the quick (as he could possibly make it) bath there was virtually no evidence left to incriminate him, just as long as he could keep the guilty smirk off his face. He would try. He pulled on his underwear and the black t-shirt of Astrid’s fashioning, and hurriedly fought his arms into Klaus’s silk dressing gown just to cover up a little more skin. He was still scratching his head when he came padding downstairs, his bare, damp feet still deadly silent even though he wasn’t trying particularly. And when he appeared in the kitchen, hair a fluffy mess and still yawning to avert suspicion, it was a good half minute or so before Astrid even turned around. It was Klaus who noticed him first, and, still waiting to officially make his entrance, George merely offered his a quick smirk and exaggerated Johnlike wink. Then, getting bored, he went over to Astrid who was sitting with her back to the door, and pulled her chair out, smiling down at her. ‘Here I am,’ he announced himself. Then he glanced at the cake with two slices cut out of it, but only one eaten. ‘Have some of my cake, Astrid,’ he encouraged teasingly, taking the piece in his fingers and holding it out to her, jabbing it towards her mouth. ‘I’ll be upset if you don’ try it. Just ‘ave a bit, come on. Here, I’ll make y’some tea.’ He put the slice in her hand and went over to boil the kettle.

While it shuddered and hissed, George sat up on the counter with his feet on the edge of Klaus’s chair, and took the comb out of his dressing gown pocket, artfully trying to search out his parting and smooth the hair back into its signature style.

 

* * *

_exiswannabe_

Astrid stares down at the slice of cake shoved so carelessly into her hands, almost dumbfounded, as if someone had just plopped a baby into her arms and strutted off. She stays like this for a moment longer before clicking, remembering the broken window. With gentle indignation, she sets the cake aside and turns a soft glare towards George. “If you are wanting to get out, jus’ tell to me! Don’t break the vindow! … Please,” She adds with an affectionately scornful sigh. Surely it’s much too early to be having cake, but Klaus doesn’t seem to mind at all. The artist fidgets with his hair, slightly damp, twirling some of the longer strands by his ears.

In all honesty, Astrid is just glad that they’re both safe, and that soon enough she’ll be able to say the same for Jürgen. She has no idea how her friend will react to George’s presence, after what’s happened. It might be weeks before he recovers—will he still be holding onto his fear by then? The doubt that the question is met with fills her with worry. She reaches down to pet Lady, the dog’s fur feeling softer than usual underneath her fingers and she notices that it’s shinier and standing up a bit more today. She glances over at George, who is preoccupied with his own hair.

Klaus turns around and smiles at George, blue eyes still wrought with exhaustion, but glimmering faintly with hope. He reaches up to adjust the teddy’s ‘do wherever it combs over too much too one side, or when one lock strays from the rest, before backing down again shyly. Only crumbs and the small fork lay atop the plate by now. “Th’ank you,” He whispers, and lowers his hands down to the back of the chair. “I feel much better today.”

* * *

_fangsharrison_

George grinned at the revelation Klaus had just announced, showing his fangs, though this time not stained with blood - Jurgen's, Klaus, or anyone else's. He put down his comb, still smiling to himself and enjoying his victory. In the end it was easy. All it had taken was a tiny ounce of politeness and some cake. Perhaps George should try being nice to the Germans more often. He just assumed that ruthlessly and repeatedly insulting them was the way you were supposed to behave as an english person in Hamburg.

When Astrid had to leave for work, George tentatively glanced across to Klaus. There was something he'd meaning to ask the artist, and now they were on speaking terms again and George wasn't an unspeakable horror that Klaus wanted to flee from like the black plague, it seemed a good opportunity to try. 'Will y'stay here with me?' he asked shoving Klaus's chair a little with his foot. There was no threat in his voice, merely a subtle quality of hopefulness which came with George not meeting Klaus's eyes for more than a second or two as he asked. But Klaus did stay. Apparently the studio weren't expecting him anyway, and in the hours that followed after Astrid had left George proceeded with his plans for Klaus to draw some artwork for the Beatles. Perhaps even talk to John about an album cover.

They stayed mostly in Klaus's bedroom whilst the light of the day lasted, as the window was smaller there in the attic. George made sure not to be too jumpy; not to snap the charcoal for fun, after it made Klaus jump the first time he did it; and he spoke quietly, even more so than usual, following the artist's lead. It was one of the reasons George did like Klaus. It was nice to be around someone else who could be quiet and careful about what he said, unlike almost everybody else at the Reeperbahn. George slept on the bed intermittently, unable to keep himself awake through the whole day and slipping out of consciously mostly without realising, only to wake up a few hours later.

But as soon as the sun set, he dragged Klaus downstairs by the wrist, hurrying him along down the stairs with little impatient shoves until they reached the living room and settled themselves here instead. Here George dug up the scrawls and scribbles he had done on the backs of Astrid's scrapped photograph prints; designs for what he thought their first ever single cover should look like. He tried to instruct Klaus how he wanted him to draw John - funny nose, cigarette about to fall out his mouth, and Paul - 'fat! He's a porky, trust me I know, me and Mike have seen him go to pastry shops when 'e was fifteen.' And, well, Klaus seemed to know how to capture Stu pretty well already.

How're ye doin' me?' he asked casually as Klaus sat on the floor with his back against one sofa, and George against the other. As he strummed out the chords of all their usual songs to get back into practice, Lady had started circling the room suspiciously, hackles raising every time George spoke, seemingly unaware that he was a vampire and that therefore she couldn't hide from him or ever hope to make a successful ambush.

* * *

_exiswannabe_

His hands are finally coated in smudged charcoal dust again, for the first time in forever really. The chalky debris feels like gold dust in the grooves of his fingerprints, and Klaus could swear they glitter too. His strokes remain brutally shaky from lack of practice, but slowly he is teaching himself to be steady again. The effect is somehow reaching his psyche as well, as he transfers from tentative little lines to confident long ones, conjuring different draft images in one of his larger sketchbooks. Once more, he is reveling in art. There is only art for him, art and music rejuvenating and cleansing his lungs of their cobwebs.

Some of George’s demands seem strange to him. Klaus is sure he’s had the band’s looks memorized by now but the teddy boy insists on changes to this detail, move that over there, make that nose weirder, make that face rounder, so on, so on. The exi frowns thoughtfully as he jots down everything, starting over so many times after the charcoal became too stubborn to erase enough. But he trusts George’s judgement. He trusts George. He’s hopeful about this, and earnestly wants to believe that his flettermaus is reforming now. He made all the effort to escape and seek Astrid’s aid, after all—surely it must be true.

“What do you th’ink?” Finally, he manages to scrap together a design that seems to work better, and holds it up. High in contrast and depicted in stark black/white are George and his band members, their faces blending in and out of bundles of scenery and smaller drawings. Though George says something, Klaus can’t help but simultaneously wonder what Jürgen would say in response. He had been a graphic designer too, before working with Reinhart, and though he was younger and unconventional in every aspect of his nature, his comments were always helpful. Klaus misses Jürgen now too, and he can’t help but wonder if George also misses him. They weren’t close as good friends before, but the exi boy was certainly more diplomatic than what could be said of Astrid or Klaus himself at the time. The worry of forgiveness clouds Voormann’s head for a moment, causing him to stall for several moments before snapping out of it.

Well, he’s been hopeful lately. And surely he can afford to extend that hope to Jürgen’s speedy recovery and mercy. Klaus smiles to himself as he puts the drawing down and gets started on a second draft underneath the guitarist’s watchful eyes—that’s right, he hasn’t gotten this far for nothing. So he prays that soon, everything will be alright in the end.

He can’t wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tah dah, you reached the end. congratulations! thank you for following RED LIGHT DISTRICT. this thread has been a real emotional rollercoaster for me, but i /think/ i had lots of fun doing it. i hope the other mun did too.
> 
> in the end, there are lots of loose ends left untied, but the thread had already been dragging on for so long that we felt it was okay to close it up here. maybe one day we'll come back and start a new arc, but the future is uncertain; that's all i can say. i'm not a big fan of ambiguous endings either and i screamed after finishing 'more happy than not' by adam silvera (a frustrating but beautiful and emotional read for my gays in the audience). but for an RP thread, i think it's impressive to have endings at all, since it's easy to just drop them at random. this might actually the first thread i've ever done with a proper ending actually! it's basically a saga; i've never done a project like this before. i'm so sad that i'll never find klaus's true happy ending but i also think i'm just happy to be able to make stories with this writer. i am wholly, utterly in awe.
> 
> please follow us at our respective tumblrs (exiswannabe & fangsharrison) if you would like to see more RP content; we've been trying to start a new thread. it is a MODERN VAMPIRE AU thread that is a vampire story too, though it is quite different from RED LIGHT DISTRICT. i hope you enjoy it; i don't know if i'll be posting it here too but we will have to see once we get enough replies in. i havent been all that active on my tumblr other than that since i've been seriously depressed and i dont think anyone is very interested in my rare muses, but fangsy's writing is much better anyway and i'd really love for you all to follow him. 
> 
> i am trying to return to fanfiction writing. i'm working on one for george/klaus right now! please consider this sample:
> 
> ‘Stop bein’ daft!’ George scolds, hands reaching up to clasp behind Klaus’s back as he tries to soothe him. He can feel the spine jutting out from beneath the skin, and the ribs that spread tangent to it as well, even through the thick sweater. If Klaus were to reciprocate, he’d be able to feel George’s ribcage too. Their bodies are so close together now; he almost feels overwhelmed from the heat coming off from the other boy. ‘I said it already, ‘m right here. What is it? Don’t cry.’
> 
> it's been several months since RED LIGHT DISTRICT so hopefully you'll see a more liberal employment of figurative language and better pacing from me... i seriously hoped ive improved since then. i've been reading a bit of gabriel garcia marquez lately and i love the fantastical and blurry style used in books like a hundred years of solitude, so you might see it from me too. i hope it is not too jarring in my writing. i do not know when i will finish but please consider checking back every now and then to see if it gets posted; i'm aiming by thanksgiving break.
> 
> thank you

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoying the work? Please follow us!
> 
> Klaus’s mun (me):  
> https://exiswannabe.tumblr.com/  
> https://tokyo-daze.deviantart.com/
> 
> George’s mun (awesome person):  
> https://fangsharrison.tumblr.com/


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